Flash
by HarbingerKismet
Summary: Elaine Henderson is an orphan.  No family and no friends, the military was her only path, but when she joins TF-141, she finds the only family she'll ever know.  Pre-MW2 through MW2.  Possible spoilers. Rated T for language and violence.
1. Prologue: Lady Luck

Lady Luck.

That's what they used to call me. Those of us who join up at some point, we all earn a name sooner or later. Getting a nickname like Lady Luck would be ridiculous if it weren't the military. Around here, getting a nickname is like joining a family. It means you've been accepted. It means you'll be remembered. Lady Luck was my name. It's the name I earned when the other marines accepted me. It's a name they'll all remember me by. Well, the ones who live, anyway.

I'll never forget the day I got it. I was a new recruit, practically fresh out of college. Tensions were tight with the Middle East, and they had opened combat ranks to women. I was in target practice with the other recruits. Sergeant Jackson called me out. He was getting acquainted with all of the new recruits, and I just happened to be next on his list. I set my gun down without ever having fired a shot. Another recruit took up the gun after I walked away and fired. Through some manufacturing mistake, the bullet never left the chamber. When he pulled the trigger again–well, let's just say that he came out of the ordeal missing a finger. Sarge always said I was lucky that I didn't get to fire a shot. He started calling me Lady Luck before he even learned my real name.

The name didn't take until my first mission out in the Middle East. We were on our way to assist an Abrams tank that was under heavy fire by the enemy. I went with Sgt. Jackson to take out the anti-air units. I brought up the rear while he went in, and then we were flanked. The sergeant was too busy with the units in front to even notice. I took out five guys and got more bullet grazes from it than I could count. With those odds, it was a miracle that one of those bullets didn't hit their mark. Everyone started calling me Lady Luck after that.

It was only hours after that first mission that I started hating the name. I went with a small squad to flank the enemies, but they were ready for us. Five of us went in. Only two of us came out. Seconds later, the building collapsed, and the corpses of my comrades were buried beneath the rubble. The injuries I received from the ordeal were serious while the comrade I dragged out myself bled out before I even got him out of the building. I was alive, but I was sent off the field and hospitalized. Hours later, a nuke went off killing every American soldier in the vicinity, including Sgt. Jackson. Miles away, I was safe and sound.

Lady Luck. To tell the truth, I didn't feel so lucky. Not only did I lose friends, but I didn't even get the pleasure of dying with them. When the SAS killed Imran Zakhaev, the man behind the whole mess, three days later, I didn't feel any sense of victory. I was done, and the name Lady Luck was as good as dead.

That's what I thought, but I stayed. Why? Because it was my duty. Because I wanted to honor the deaths of the men who died that day. Because there's always more to be done, and somebody has to do it. But mostly I stayed because I was pissed. Anger like that? It's not gonna leave you by walking away. And there will be more anger, more loss. The best you can do is face it head on. Same shit, different day.

At least, that's what the general always says.


	2. Chapter 1: Objective

_"The mission went well. We got the info outta him no problem."_

_"Good work, Captain, but that's not why I called you down here."_

_"Sir?"_

_"MacTavish, how would you like a new member?"_

_"We could use a good recruit. You know someone who measures up?"_

_"Take a look."_

_"Elaine Henderson. Impressive credentials. Marine that fought in the Middle East a few years ago and has been workin' with the CIA for the last three years. Plenty of others like her. What makes her different?"_

_"Keep reading."_

_"Three years ago...this really true?"_

_"I knew the man who filed the report personally."_

_"...How soon before she can join us?"_

_"I sent her on an undercover op a few days ago. Somehow, she was compromised."_

_"Who has her?"_

_"The name you got from the informant is our weapons dealer and also the man who has Henderson. I'm briefing you for a new mission."_

* * *

><p>Just another routine mission. That's what Shepherd said. If I had known he intended to send me into the meat grinder, I might have looked the other way. I was supposed to show up and work my way into the dealer's service, then kill him when I had the chance. Instead, I showed up and I was already compromised. No doubt this was Shepherd's plan. Keep an assassination blame off the US while giving me the 'clearance' I need to get near the dealer. If that's as far as his plan went, then he's a fool.<p>

The blinding light in my eyes isn't helping the throbbing in my head. I've been stabbed and shot plenty of times, but you're never really prepared to get the crap beaten out of you. That's where I'm at now. Getting the crap beaten out of me in an interrogation room. They want a name, my name. I've had extensive training; I haven't said a word, but that doesn't make the pain of their blows any less. I really want to kill Shepherd right about now.

"Come on, princess. Give us something, here," the huge man in front of me says. "Take your time if you want. I have all day. I'm not sure you do."

He's speech is getting old. I've been hearing the same thing for the past three days. Still, there's no reason to believe he's not being serious. They could implement new torture techniques at any time. The real question is why they haven't yet.

"Jengo Kwame," I say. My voice is hoarse from dehydration, but it's still audible. Barely.

"What?"

"Jengo Kwame," I repeat. "That's his name, isn't it? Your boss?"

My head stings with pain as he suddenly hits me again, harder than he ever has before. There was no question that this man's boss is Jengo Kwame. I knew that even before I came on the op. It was still fun jerking him around. At least, that's what I thought before it earned me an extra blow from The Hulk, here. I suddenly imagine him shouting, "Hulk smash!" A giggle escapes from my lips. Clearly a mistake. He kicks my chair to the floor and introduces his feet to my ribs for the third time today. If some ribs aren't broken already, they soon will be.

He stops just short of a third kick. Just in time, too. A kick or two more, and I would have blacked out. He has his hand up to his ear–he must be listening to his radio. After a few seconds, he looks down at me and says, "I guess this is your lucky day." Without missing a beat, he bends down and uncuffs me from the chair. He takes me back to my cell, dragging me more than guiding me. That's just fine with me. I don't really have the strength to walk anyway. When we get to my cell, he throws me to the ground without taking off my cuffs. Usually he takes them off. He must be losing his patience.

The concrete floor is freezing, but it feels good. I press my face against it. I can only imagine how bruised up I am. I'm not sure there's anything that _doesn't_ hurt at this point. But, thinking back, this isn't the worst pain I've ever felt. I've never been more hungry or thirsty in my life, though. I think I'd probably eat dirt at this point.

The small shutter in my cell door suddenly opens and I hear a clanking sound. Speak of the devil. A plate of dirt. Or, y'know, goopy white stuff. Same thing. Still, it's better than nothing, and my stomach is screaming at me. I don't hesitate to shove the contents into my mouth. It tastes horrible.

With my food eaten, I have nothing left to do but lay here in silence. I keep thinking back to the moment when Jengo Kwame's men took me into custody. Was there something I did wrong? Was there something I didn't do? Going over it again and again, I know that this was a set up. I can't figure out what Shepherd could be thinking, what he expects out of this 'plan', but my mind keeps going back to training. Stick to the objective. Stick to the objective. Kill Jengo Kwame. Right. How do I do that from in here?

"Stick to the objective," I whisper to myself, and then everything goes black.

I'm moving before I wake up. You know you're tired when someone's dragging you and it doesn't even wake you up. The only reason I did wake up is because my arms are just about coming out of their sockets. Mr. Hulk is dragging me back to the interrogation room by my arms. I don't know how long I was asleep. No windows in this place. I let Mr. Hulk drag me the whole way there. No sense in wasting what little energy I have to walk somewhere against my will.

When we get back to the room, the big guy locks my cuffs back to the chair. On to the next round. At least, that's what I thought at first. The big guy is walking away, now, back to the only door out. He's glaring at me like he wants a piece of me, but it looks like he has different orders. He opens the door and steps to the side. Seconds later, a small black man enters the room. Well, he looks small standing next to Mr. Hulk; anyone would. The guy is still bigger than me and looks like he can hold his own in a fight.

The big guy closes the door and stands guard after this new guy enters the room. When the new guy in the room speaks, it's with an African accent, unlike how most of the guys I've heard so far have American accents. "I hear you won't give us any information," he says. I don't say anything. I know better. He laughs and says, "We don't need you to give us info for us to figure out a thing or two about you." The man starts pacing back and forth as he fiddles threateningly with a dagger. "For example, we know you're American. The fact that you haven't given us any information says you've had extensive training. No one has attempted to claim you yet, but due to the extent of your training, you probably aren't freelance. The fact that you know my name tells me that you aren't a mole sent here to gather information; you must already have it."

That is what I was waiting for. The name Jengo Kwame should have given it away, but I had to be sure, and now I am. This is Jengo Kwame, the head weapons dealer I was sent here to assassinate. I finally have him in my sights. Too bad that doesn't do you much good when you don't have a gun.

"We can do this one of two ways," he says as he walks up to me and puts the knife to my cheek. "You can give me information or you can die. Take your pick." He doesn't give me a chance to respond before punching me in the gut. It hurt, too. The big guy landed some mean blows, but he was just big. Jengo is angry, and he isn't holding anything back. The big guy probably had orders not to kill me, but Jengo is in charge, and he plans to kill me–even if I do give him the information that I have, I suspect.

Jengo punches me in the gut with just as much force a few more times until the chair falls to the ground. I nearly hit my head on the concrete floor, but I managed to lift it just enough. He moves in to kick me, but he's interrupted by something he's hearing in his coms. As he listens, he walks up to the big guy. "How many of them are there?" He questions as he slides his knife back in its sheath on his belt. "Get out there and do your job," Jengo says to the big guy. The answer to his question must not have been good if he's sending his bodyguard out to the fight. Either that or he has enough confidence in his abilities to not need a bodyguard.

Either one is fine with me. I've just been given an opportunity. Two, in fact. With the amount of abuse this chair has seen in the past few days, it must have finally decided to give. The piece of wood that my cuffs are wrapped around cracked when the chair hit the ground. I'm able to pull my cuffs off of the chair without Jengo noticing me. Thank god they were using a wooden chair instead of a metal one.

Jengo is still arguing with his bodyguard to get him to fight off the intruders–at least, I assume there are intruders. Finally, the big guy leaves the room and Jengo walks back toward me. He grabs my shirt, and I quickly grab the chair behind my back as Jengo pulls me upright, bringing the chair with me. Before Jengo has a chance to do anything to me, I sweep both of my feet under his, sending him to the ground. I stand up and jump backwards, looping my hands underneath both of my feet in order to get them in front of me.

I'm just in time. The moment I get my hands out in front of me, Jengo is back on his feet. He pulls out his gun, but I tackle him before he can use it, and the gun slides across the floor. As the two of us fall to the ground, I take the opportunity to grab his com set and smash it to pieces. It leaves me open, and Jengo punches me directly in the face. That gives him just enough time to pull the knife from his belt and swing at me with it. I just barely dodge it, escaping with only a light cut on my arm.

I scramble to my feet in time to dodge another one of his attacks, and another and another. Jengo knows what he's doing, but so do I. I manage to dodge every one until I see an opening. I take the opportunity to uppercut him and land a few blows of my own. They aren't as effective as they would be if I were at full strength, but they give me the opening I need to smash up at his elbow and break his arm, sending the dagger flying out of his hand.

Frantically, I scramble for the dagger. As soon as the hilt is in a tight grip in my hand, I stand and turn around, coming practically face to face with Jengo, and Jengo is pointing a gun at me. He must have had time to grab it while I was getting the dagger. It doesn't matter. Stick to the objective. Stick to the objective. I lunge at Jengo as he pulls the trigger. I swallow the pain of the bullet passing through my shoulder and drive the dagger right into Jengo's heart. With anger, I twist the knife, and Jengo falls to the ground.

I'm not far behind him. With the fight over and my adrenaline wearing off, it's hard to find the strength to hold myself up, not to mention the gunshot wound in my left shoulder. Thankfully, the bullet appears to have gone straight through, but there's a lot of blood. And I suspect Jengo's men will come rushing through the door at any moment. Either way, this looks like the end of the line.

When I hear footsteps outside the door, my adrenaline kicks in again. If I'm going down, I'm going with a fight. I grab the gun with my cuffed hands and check the mag. There are still a few shots left. I get up against the wall behind the door and wait, my adrenaline pumping harder and harder. I can hear my heartbeat in my head. It's almost like a timer counting down–

The door slams open and I immediately point my gun at the back of the door, ready for whoever is standing there when the door closes. After an impossible second, the door closes again and there's a man standing there wearing a balaclava with a skull on it pointing his gun at me. There are five other guys behind him. All of them are pointing their guns at me now.

Before either party can decide to shoot, one of the guys steps forward and says, "Hold your fire. That's the target." He has a Scottish accent.

The guy directly in front of me lowers his gun and says, "Sergeant Henderson?" This one has a British accent.

"Who's asking?" I say, my voice barely audible. I don't lower my weapon. I don't trust them yet.

One of the other guys in the back, an American by the sound of it, mumbles, "You mean Sergeant Henderson is a _girl_?"

"Sergeant _Elaine_ Henderson," the one in the mask says. "General Shepherd sent us to extract you."

I finally lower my gun and say, "Funny. I wasn't sure if he'd bother."

"Looks like you took care of our other target," the Scottish one says as he stands over the body of Jengo.

"He was _my_ target, not yours," I say.

"Looks that way," he replies. "We have this place rigged to blow. We should finish up here. Can you walk?" He asks as he gestures to my shoulder.

"I'm standing now, aren't I?" I say. "Just get these cuffs off of me." The man in the balaclava steps forward and goes to work at the cuffs with a lock pick. In seconds, the cuffs around my wrists drop to the floor, and I'm free of my shackles. The Scot steps up and hands me an M4A1.

"Let's get moving," he says after giving me a pat to the shoulder. Thankfully, it was the right one.

It's tough keeping up with them. After all, they haven't been deprived of food and water and a decent night's rest like I have. Not to mention the beating I got. Oh, and the gunshot wound. Let's not forget that. I can feel myself falling behind inch by inch as we go along. We run into a few stragglers as we advance. The others are so fast at lifting their weapons that I don't get a chance to lift mine. All of the stragglers we cross are shot down with precision as I do my best to keep up with the group.

It's not enough. My knees suddenly feel weak. I have to slow down. With the gun at my side, I lean against the wall for support. I didn't realize until now how heavy my breathing is. It sounds like an asthmatic having an attack. It feels like it, too. I used what little strength I had in me to take down Jengo, and now I have none left. It shouldn't be surprising, but it's a sobering realization.

After a quick glance back, the Scot notices me falling behind the group. He pats the man with the balaclava on the shoulder and says, "Ghost, take point."

"Roger," the man replies, and he heads up the rest of the group.

The Scot falls back to me and says, "You alright?"

"I'm fine," I lie, not wanting to cause trouble.

"You're clearly not," he mutters as he swings my right arm around his shoulder and starts helping me along.

Even in the condition I'm in, I can't help but joke. "Then why did you ask?"

The Scot chuckles a bit and says, "Don't be a smartass. Ghost, we're Oscar Mike. Let's go."

"Got it," Ghost says as he moves up.

We only run into a few more stragglers on our way out of the base. The whole way, I feel like I'm letting the Scot drag me more than help me along. Still, that doesn't mean that I'm useless. Now that I don't have to concentrate as much on holding myself up, I can focus on shooting the enemy. Thank god. It will at least help me relieve a little stress. The Scot seems to empathize. Any time there's an enemy to our right or left, he angles himself to give me a better shot. It's clearly not the first time he's had to pull someone out of the fire.

I can't keep up the pace for long. My arm is feeling heavier by the minute, and my vision is starting to get blurry. A glance at my shoulder tells me that it's soaked with blood. If there was any adrenaline left in me before, it's long gone now. The Scot must notice my sluggishness. With a nervous twinge, he says, "Ghost, pick up the pace."

"Almost there," Ghost says, all business.

"This is MacTavish," the Scot says as he speaks into his coms. "We're almost at the exfil point. Get ready."

The Scot is literally dragging me at this point. Somewhere between 'pick up the pace' and 'almost there', I think I must have dropped my weapon. I don't know when I went from walking to stumbling. I'm trying my hardest to stay awake, but my body is fighting me. The voices of the team around me are the only reason I'm still conscious. Without something to listen for, my body would give up.

As if reading my thoughts, the Scot says, "Henderson, hang in there! Ghost, move! We're almost there, Henderson! Royce, get ready to blow it."

My eyes crack open as soon as we hit fresh air. It feels good to be outside again, even in the shape I'm in. As we near the chopper, the air around us picks up and blows violently. Even that feels strangely relaxing. I think it's because it's helping to keep me conscious. Take what you can get.

The Scot pulls me up into the chopper and to the back. My landing on the ground is anything but gentle, but it doesn't matter. At this point treatment is what matters most. I couldn't care less about the pain. Pain keeps you alert. Pain tells you you're still alive. I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.

"Archer, work your magic!" The Scot says as he pulls the first aid kit off the wall and sets it next to me. The man called Archer is next to me in an instant, working his hands as fast as he can. The Scot looks back to the other squad members then speaks into his coms. "We're Oscar Mike!" As the chopper lifts off and the Scot says, "Royce, do it."

Seconds later, I can hear the sounds of a huge explosion followed by Archer's voice. "Captain, she's lost a lot of blood..."

"Just do what you can to stop the bleeding. We'll deal with the rest later," the Scot says frantically. His voice sounds farther away than it did before. I feel farther away. The pain is starting to fade, and I don't like it. Against my will, I can feel myself slipping away from reality. The last thing I hear is, "Henderson, hang in there."

* * *

><p>"It looks like they got you out of there in one piece," Shepherd says as he sits down near me.<p>

I can't help but look at the sorry shape I'm in, lying here in this bed. "Thanks to you, sir," I say bitterly. I wonder if he noticed. If he did, he hasn't shown it.

"You do good work, Henderson," he says, and I can tell he means it, but it doesn't make me feel any better. He is willing to sacrifice people if it means certain success. I hate that more than anything. "How would you like to serve a greater purpose?"

That catches my attention. "Sir?"

"You're obedient, efficient, get the job done. You're tough, you're skilled, and you're damn near impossible to kill," Shepherd says, and I wonder for a split second if that means he's tried. "More than all of that, you're loyal."

"Is this going somewhere, sir?" I ask. I don't like the sound of his compliments. It sounds like he's trying to butter me up. It's a waste of his time. He almost got me killed, and compliments won't buy back my trust.

"I'm giving you a promotion, Henderson," he says. "When I assigned you to this operation, you said you wanted to make a difference. This is you're big chance. Welcome to the one-four-one. Once you're back on your feet, you'll be allowed three days leave—"

"I don't want leave, sir," I say quickly.

Shepherd smiles knowingly before he says, "I didn't think so. Henderson, as soon as you're operational, you are to report directly to me."

I study Shepherd's face for a moment. I'm barely able to contain a smile of my own as I say, "Yessir."


	3. Chapter 2: Squad

"Henderson," says the man before me. "Back on your feet, I see."

"I'm more than ready to get back to work, sir," I say in response. Nothing could be truer. Weeks off the job will do that to a person. I've been able to think of little else. And Shepherd thought to offer me leave.

"Are you ready for this, Sergeant? No one has a tougher job than these guys," Shepherd says to me.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" I ask. Shepherd nods his head, and I let loose. "You know me, General. I don't care about getting promotions. I don't care about orders or protocol. I just want to do my job, and if that means that by the end of the day a few more of our guys are alive and a few more of the enemy's guys are dead, then all the better. Let's cut the bullshit and get straight to it."

"Alright then," responds Shepherd, unsurprised by my outburst. "Grab your bag, Henderson. We're going for a short ride."

I throw my bag over my shoulder. It's light; it has only clothes and other personals, but nothing sentimental. Nothing irreplaceable. Shepherd leaves the room ahead of me, and I follow closely behind him. Once we get outside, Shepherd jumps into the driver's seat of one of the parked trucks. I toss my bag in the back and hop into the seat next to him. He puts his foot to the gas the minute my ass hits the chair.

I don't bother asking Shepherd where we're going. It's easier to just observe my surroundings and figure it out for myself. We move across the base quickly. It must be on the base, otherwise we'd take a chopper, and we aren't heading toward the helipad. No, we turn towards the west side of the base—authorized personnel only. "The west end isn't used for weapons development like everyone thinks, is it?"

"Well, not most of it, anyway," Shepherd responds as we pull up to a large bunker. No doubt it's an indoor training ground. I can hear gunfire from within. Shepherd and I both hop out of the truck, and Shepherd waits as I grab my bag from the back. Within seconds, we're at the door to the bunker. Shepherd enters without any introduction. I follow behind him.

The first thing I see upon entering is a line of soldiers firing their weapons—target practice. Of course, none of them are missing their marks. It wouldn't be much of an elite squad if they did. A part of me can't help but wonder why they're even bothering. Target practice is among the basics of combat. Squad training would be more useful. Still, it isn't my place to criticize how this squad trains.

Shepherd and I stop not far from the door. Shepherd waves his hand to one of the two soldiers observing the practice from the other side of the room. The man with the mohawk stands up from leaning against the table and makes the walk across the room. He stops in front of us, looks to me, and says, "Sergeant Henderson. Good to see you back on your feet."

I recognize his voice immediately as the Scot who pulled me out of Jengo's facility. Before I have a chance to say anything, Shepherd says, "Henderson, this is Captain MacTavish. You're to follow his orders to the letter. Captain, she's all yours. Any questions?" Silence fills the gap. Shepherd then says, "Go to work." Before either of us can blink, Shepherd is out the door.

The Captain holds out his hand and says, "Nice to officially meet you, Henderson."

I take his hand and say, "I should thank you for saving my life."

"No need," he says. "It won't be the last time, and you'll probably pay me back." MacTavish turns and beckons the other man sitting against the table across the room and shouts, "Ghost!"

I know the man even before the Captain says his name. The skull balaclava is easy to recognize. Ghost takes his time crossing the room, and I realize then how casual the unit seems to be. I guess once they get in deep enough, people start realizing that formalities are a waste of time. The enemy doesn't care if you call your commanding officer "sir" or not. What really matters is completing the mission at any cost.

"Ghost, run 'em a bit more, then break for lunch," MacTavish says.

"Roger," Ghost mutters, the movement of his mouth barely visible beneath his mask. He turns to me briefly and says, "Welcome to the one-four-one." I nod slightly. What else is there to do? Say thank you? I'm not in this for the honor. I'm just here to do my job.

Ghost saunters back to his spot at the table, and MacTavish says, "I'll show you to the barracks." He turns to the door. I follow behind him, and we're back outside within seconds.

"Is the where the one-four-one is based?" I ask, pondering the different nationalities within the task force.

"There are outposts in several different countries, but Shepherd is currently the head of the task force, so, for now, this is the main HQ," MacTavish answers.

Hmph. Shepherd. MacTavish glances at me briefly, and a look of dread covers my face. "I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

MacTavish looks away, but I can see a smile creep up the corner of his mouth before he does. "Said what out loud?" he mutters.

"I didn't realize TF 141 members took insubordination so lightly," I mumble before I even realize what I'm saying. I'm hoping that it's true now that I've just said something like that to the Captain.

"Shepherd's an ass," MacTavish says with a laugh. "Still, the orders come from him. You shouldn't say that to just anyone."

I can't help but laugh in response. "I don't know what it is about you. Apparently I can't help but run my mouth around you," I say, remembering all the shit I said on the last mission.

"You won't be the only smartass in this unit," MacTavish laughs.

"Damn. And I was hoping to annoy the hell out of everyone before the next mission."

"You will if you cause as much trouble as you did last time," MacTavish responded.

"It's not a party until someone gets shot," I mutter with a smile. I'm kind of pleased that I don't have to worry about strict conversation. I haven't had a commanding officer this laid back since... Well, it's been a long time.

"How is the shoulder, by the way?" the Captain asks seriously.

"You threw me around so much, it took longer than expected to heal," I say. Maybe he's ready to be serious, but I'm not.

"Henderson, if you're unfit for duty for any reason—"

"It's still a little sore, but I'm fine," I mutter quickly. "I'm fit for duty, Captain."

MacTavish keeps a serious expression, but then the expression makes way for another laugh. "Shepherd was right about you," MacTavish says. "Quick to joke, but all about the mission."

"I take my job very seriously," I say, and then, after thinking about Shepherd's stunt from the last mission, I say, "More seriously than others, it seems." Quickly, I add, "I don't mean you, Captain."

"I get what you mean," he replies, but I wonder if he really means it.

We arrive at the barracks quickly, and MacTavish says, "Go on in and take any empty bed. The mess hall is that building over there." He points at the building just across the way from the barracks. "Be ready to be poked and prodded by the squad when you get in there. Believe me; they won't hesitate to ask questions."

"Thanks for the warning," I say with a slight smile, and then I head inside the barracks and throw my bag down on the nearest empty bunk.

* * *

><p>After several minutes, I still find myself in the barracks, staring at the bag I threw down on the bed. The nerves are getting to me. I have no problem meeting the new squad. The real problem is about getting "poked and prodded," as the Captain so <em>delicately<em> put it. I'm prepared to be completely open with my squad mates. That's where the trust begins. Still, there are some questions I would rather not be asked, and I'm hoping to god they won't ask them. Some things are better left unsaid. Some things are impossible to say.

In an attempt to loosen up, I stretch my arms and my neck and twiddle with my braided hair. It doesn't make me feel any better, but by the time I'm done I'm ready to go to the mess hall. I exit the barracks and count my steps as I cross the space to the mess hall. This gets me focused. Meeting them is just another mission. Compared to all the other shit I've had to do, this should be easy, right?

Wrong. The minute I enter the door, I get tackled by two guys who were apparently lying in wait for me. Between the two of them clapping me on the shoulder, I don't have time to think of something to say. It doesn't matter. The black guy on my right makes a point to talk first.

"Welcome to the squad, Henderson," he says. "I'm lookin' forward to working with you."

As the two of them go to sit down next to everyone else, the second guy, a white guy, says, "Whatever, Meat. Until yesterday, you were still freaking out about the fact that she's a chick."

I can't help but laugh at this, and already I feel a little better. I grab a tray of food and sit down to join them. I quickly learn several of the squad members' names. I remember Meat from the last mission—the guy who was surprised I was a woman. The white guy who met me at the door along with Meat I learn to be called Royce. I also recall that he handled the explosives on the last mission. Chemo, Ozone, Scarecrow, Worm, Toad, and Archer—I remember him before he evens introduces himself. It's hard to forget the guy who saved my life, even if I was barely conscious at the time. MacTavish and Ghost, of course, I already know. It seems Ghost is MacTavish's second in command. I hardly need to talk to them to figure that out.

The minute we're all familiar with each other, I feel nervousness creep back up into my spine. If they're going to start asking questions, they'll do it now. It feels like joining the Marines all over again, only then I didn't have any unpleasant history to share.

"So, Henderson, you're American, right? What branch of the military are you from?" Meat asks. It's almost hard to believe that he was nervous about me coming here yesterday.

"I was in the Marines," I say, dreading the direction of the conversation.

"The Marines, huh?" responds Scarecrow, the only other soldier from the U.S. in the room. "I knew a guy from the mid-west who was afraid of water—still wanted to be in the Marines, though. You live on the coast?"

"No, I'm actually from Colorado," I say, and then, for those unfamiliar with the States, I add, "It's nowhere near the ocean."

"You got a family there?" Meat asked quickly.

Royce punches Meat on the shoulder and says, "Damn, you're nosy."

"What? We were all thinking it!" Meat shouts. Toad and Worm both mumbled in agreement. "Look, I'll go first, Henderson! I live in Vancouver with my—"

"With your girlfriend," almost everyone says in unison, even Ghost and the Captain. Royce then says to me, "He's told us a thousand times, but we're not really sure we believe he has a girlfriend."

They all laugh—except for Meat—and I can't help but laugh with them. "I don't know who'd be willing to put up with his sexism," I mutter, and everyone laughs again. Once the laughter dies down again, I say, "I really don't mind the questions, though." It's the truth, as long as we stop talking about the Marines.

"Then, family?" Meat repeats.

"I was passed around in foster care for most of my life," I say without a twinge of bitterness.

"You were an orphan?" asks—who else?—Meat.

"A bad one," I say with a laugh. "Most orphans spend most of their time waiting to get adopted. I spent most of my time sneaking around and playing pranks on everyone. The rest of the time I spent getting into fights with the other kids. Let's just say I had the label 'Troublemaker.'"

"Waitaminute," someone utters, and it's Royce this time. "You don't have any family at all?"

"Not that I know of," I say. I almost sound proud of it somehow.

"Man, what even keeps you _going_?" Meat asks as he leans back in his chair. "Whenever I think, 'why am I doing this,' I always think about my family. They keep me going."

"Don't forget your girlfriend in that, Meat," MacTavish adds with a laugh. "So what about you, Henderson. What keeps you going?"

I glance at everyone at the table. They're all looking to me for the answer, but I'm trying to find some answer in their eyes. What are they expecting? I thought we were all here for the same reason.

"Hey, hey, hey," Meat says jokingly. "Don't get so personal, Captain—"

But before he even has a chance to finish his sentence, I find myself speaking. "I'm here for all of _you_."

This earns everyone's stares again, and I feel more awkward than I did when Meat and Royce ambushed me at the door earlier. Is it even possible that they don't understand where I'm coming from? Am I the only one?

"Look, they use us and abuse us to achieve whatever mission they need done, and that's fine," I say strongly. "We're soldiers. That's what we're meant for. We do all of the dirty work civilians and politicians won't do. But there's no reason why those needs should be met with our deaths. Every day, soldiers die in the name of their leaders or their religions or their families or their countries. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen. I'm here because I want to be able to go to war, look at the guy on my right and look and the guy on my left, and see those same faces on my right and on my left when the war ends."

There's a long silence in the room, and I can't help but wonder if I said something stupid. After a long time, I see smiles start to creek up on several faces. I half expect everyone to burst out laughing, but they don't. Instead, the first thing I hear is Meat say, "Damn. I'll go to war with you any day."

I hear a "no shit" followed by a "yeah," and then followed by several "hell yeahs." Finally, Ghost says, "If Meat wasn't sure about you before, he is now."

Everyone starts laughing then, and it's not a mocking laugh I was dreading. It's a laugh of relief. A tension that I didn't even know was there is suddenly lifted. I can already feel the trust starting to build between me and them.

"Seems like you'll fit right in here," MacTavish says as the laughter stops. Then he claps his hands together and says, "Alright. Back to training."

Not more target practice, I think to myself. As everyone in the room gives me a glance, I say, "I said that aloud, huh?"

Everyone gives a little laugh before MacTavish says, "You're right. Maybe we should do some drills, see what you're made of."

"I'm up for it," Meat says excitedly.

"This isn't a competition, Meat," Archer says.

"It may as well be," I say as I stand. "It'll be more fun that way."

* * *

><p>As soon as we start doing the drills, nothing else exists. It's like on a mission. Nothing else matters but the gun in your hand and the enemy at your front. I try to steer away from that kind of thinking. It's thinking like that that will get you in trouble. It's thinking like that that will get someone killed. I've dealt with thinking like that before, and all it got me was a free pass out of the Middle East and a unit full of dead comrades.<p>

Even being new to the unit, it isn't long before I'm able to focus on my comrades. I spend more time sizing them up than anything else, learning what I can about them so that I can work together with them to maximum effectiveness. Meat and Royce are good at short range firefights. Archer specializes in sniping. Chemo and Scarecrow seem to prefer handling the explosives. Ghost and MacTavish are both pretty well rounded, though judging by the way the captain dodges around corners, I'd say he's pretty experienced with covert operations. Still, there's a lot you can't tell from a simple gun course. Fighting real enemies is nothing like shooting at a bunch of cardboard, most notably because it doesn't shoot back.

MacTavish seems to be watching me just as carefully as I'm watching the team. He's probably thinking the same thing as he watches me. I shoot quickly, I never miss, and I know how to check my corners, but how is that really different from anyone else here? Part of me wants to show him what I'm worth. Another part of me acknowledges that Shepherd placed me in this unit, and that part of me doesn't trust the captain at all.

We run the drills for a long time, maybe hours. I don't remember the last time I've been this tired. Everyone else seems fine, though. They keep pressing on like there's nothing else in the world. I can't remember if training was ever this hard. Before long, I start making mistakes, and I catch Royce and Archer hitting targets that I should have been able to get before them. I even miss a few fatal hits and start taking more shots to down targets. I'm last around the corners, last down the stairs, last over barricades, and last to the wire. By the time this drill is over, my breathing is heavy and my brow is caked with sweat.

"Archer, Royce, nice work out there. Royce, you need to move faster around the corners. You can't leave an enemy time to react," the Captain says. "Archer, you aren't as experienced with close range weapons, and it shows. Take it easy on the sniping for awhile and work on SMGs and assaults. If the enemy gets in close, you won't stand a chance." By the time he turns to me, my breathing still hasn't calmed down. "Henderson, you started out well, but you're making a lot of mistakes out there. You need to work on your endurance. If you can't settle in for the long-haul, you're useless to me," he says, and I feel pissed–like I was supposed to prove myself and completely blew it. Worse, I feel like I'm back in basic getting berated and put down and feeling sorry for myself like some dumb kid instead of taking the criticism to heart and focusing it on improving myself.

The Captain doesn't give it another thought, not like the way I get locked on the subject. He turns to the rest of the squad and says, "Meal time. Eat up, then get some rest. We'll be up bright and early for more tomorrow."

As the squad leaves, I turn back to the course and stare. My breathing is finally back in control, but my anger isn't. I take the mag out of my M-16 and run the course again, feigning shots at the targets. Check my corners, take out the targets as efficiently as possible, move in and out of cover without leaving myself too exposed while taking down targets, running across open areas as if my life depended on it. One foot in front of the other.

I practice until my legs start to hurt again, until my breathing gets out of control, until my head starts swimming, until my lungs begin burning, until it makes me sick to my stomach, but I don't think I'm improving much, and already I can start to feel that I know the course too well. A real mission was never going to be so familiar. Real enemies were never going to be so predictable and were going to shoot back. Real terrain shifted and collapsed and changed as it was affected by outside influences like bombardment and weather. Real missions were going to have different parameters: hostages, weapons, time constraints, personnel limits, ammo shortages, stealth requirements, low visibility, bad vantage points, overhead bombardment, improvisation... The list of conditions that could change was too large for this course to cover, and if I couldn't handle a simple gun course, what good would I be to the squad?

"Henderson, why don't you get to the mess?" I hear the Captain say suddenly as I sit in the near-dark staring at the course.

"Captain," I mutter, barely glancing at him to hide my humiliation.

"The main problem isn't in your skill," he says as he sits down next to me. "It's when you get worn down. You don't have the stamina for long-term operations."

_I used to,_ I think. It doesn't take me long to realize I've said it aloud. It doesn't bother me knowing that he heard it, though. What does bother me is the fact that I feel like I want to blame this on anyone but myself. If I try and try and nothing changes, then it must not be me that's the problem. I know it is, but I don't want it to be.

"That shoulder looks like it's bothering you," MacTavish says. "You were a hostage for five days. You just got out of the sickbay. It'll take time to build back up to it." MacTavish laughs before he says, "Besides, you're with the big boys now. We get some of the toughest missions there are."

I can't help but smile when he says "big boys." "I guess so," I say. "You get used to thinking of yourself as the best when you make a habit of surviving. I guess I just hate feeling like an FNG again."

"We've all be there," he says with a laugh. "Get to the mess then hit the sack. There's more coming tomorrow," MacTavish says as he stands and turns toward the mess.

I stare at the course a little while longer until I decide that sleep is the thing I need most, and not because I'm drop-dead tired. In the morning, my mind will be fresh. Every little movement, every little success, every little mistake from today's training will be etched into my memory and everything will come a little easier. Food first, and then sleep. Tomorrow would be just another day.


	4. Chapter 3: In Memorium

As the days steadily go by, I can feel my stamina improving bit by bit. I make less mistakes the further into drills we get. I have no problem feeling like one of the team. We wake up together, we eat together, we train together, we eat together more, we train together more, we eat together one last time, and then we go to bed. The routine is familiar, but it feels like new. Everything starts to feel normal again for the first time in three years.

And then there are the nightmares. I don't know why they come to me when they do. It seems like every time things are going well, the nightmares come back. When I'm in difficult situations—like being held hostage by an illegal weapons dealer—the nightmares never visit. I never think back on them when I'm working myself to exhaustion. But in the dead of night when everyone is asleep, when everything is calm and still, when my body has a moment to rest, the nightmares come back like a bad rash.

I can still see their faces, the ones who went into the building with me. My hands are shaking, but I don't know if it's out of excitement or fear. Maybe it's both. Or maybe the adrenaline pumping through me is so potent that I can't control my muscles anymore. The building looks like something out of a dream sequence. Collapsing, dust and rubble everywhere, blown out windows, door splinters scattered about the floor—it's hard to imagine how only a few days before, people lived and worked here. I try to imagine them sitting at their tables or lying in their beds when the bombs hit, rubble crushing their mortal bodies, shards of glass and wood ripping their faces to shreds, people crawling across the floors to their loved ones and calling their names and being answered with only explosions and screams. I feel a glint of sadness then, for the victims and for our enemies. They're defending their homes. They may have started the war, but we're the intruders here, and all they want is to make sure their loved ones make it out alive.

But there's no room for sentiment like that on the battlefield. I push the thoughts out of my head quickly. They evacuated. They aren't here anymore. The only people here are the bastards trying to kill my comrades, my brothers. They have to be stopped, and if we're going to stop them, killing them is a reality we have to accept. That's what I keep repeating to myself over and over. It's the only thing that keeps me going, the only thing that keeps my feet moving forward, and as I look at the men to my left and right I know it's the only thing keeping them going too. We have to stick together.

Then the plan goes wrong. The enemy, the allies—it didn't matter who was who when the walls came down, when pieces of the ceiling started dropping around us. All that mattered was getting out. The shrapnel that enters my skin from the explosions feels like little more than sand against my skin. The cracking sound from my leg seems like nothing more than the sound of my creaky joints when I land on it from the second story. The only thing that I can see is the other man falling from the spot next to me. All I can hear is the thump of the stone collapsing to the ground, the snapping of his own bones as the stone lands on him, the bloodcurdling scream from his mouth in the single moment that the pain registers.

I know that I can get out, but I have to help him if I can. I have to get him out, or my survival was for nothing. I can see his face, but I can't remember his name as I pull the rubble off him. His screams turn to groans as I pull him through the building, over the blocks and the glass and the wood. Rubble falls to the right and a little to the left and a cloud of dust blinds and suffocates me as part of the building roars to the ground. The roof shifts and I know that the rest is going to come down soon. The sound of the bullets and the explosions and the battle cries and the screams seems distant compared to the creaking and groaning of the building. It sounds like it's ready to swallow us whole.

I emerge in an explosion of daylight, and I can't see for a second. Hands grab me by the crooks of my arms and drag me away. I can't let go of him, though. I have to hold on to him. The hands in the crook of my arms meld with his shoulders as I hug him tight to me. Another set of hands grab me and pull, and the two of us are dragged away from the building as it groans, roars, then goes silent, and another cloud of dust blocks my vision.

When the two lifelines stop dragging us, I fall over. I don't know when I dropped him. I don't know if I dropped him or if he was taken from me, but I can see him as the dust settles. He's silent. Lieutenant Vasquez is administering CPR. Then he starts banging on his chest. Nothing happens. He doesn't speak, he doesn't breathe, and he doesn't blink. He just lays there, silent. No more groans. No more screams. Silence.

And then I hear them screaming my name. I can't seem to reply. My mind is thinking it, but my mouth won't move. I can't make my eyes look up at them. I can't grab them with my hands and tell them I'm okay. It feels like I'm looking through the eyes of a statue. The eyes of a corpse.

The slap across my cheek feels like electricity. Like jump-starting a car, my body comes back online with a rumble. The shrapnel feels like a thousand six-inch knives in my skin. My leg feels like a throbbing mass of puss or blood or something, like there's some liquid making my skin taut, and the bone is pushing against it with persistence, like it's trying to break through the surface with every ounce of strength it has. My lungs are burning like I'm breathing in fire, and every breath makes them drier and drier. Coughing only hurts, but I can't stop it.

They keep screaming my name, keep screaming words of encouragement, but I still can't reply. I still can't speak to them, can't tell them I'm okay. They're black shadows above me, nameless shapes. But I recognize his voice. I recognize the voice that says, "Hang in there, Elaine! You're Lady Luck! You'll make it out of this alive!"

I wake with tears in my eyes and a lump in my gut that feels ready to come up. _I'll make it out alive_, I think to myself, _but you won't._

I can't sleep after that. Every time I have that dream, sleep is impossible. The only thing left to do is wait. When I first started having the nightmares, I would use this time to work out, but it didn't help me sleep, and it only made me exhausted. When I figured out that didn't work, I would read or listen to music, but I don't have my books or my music here. I left those behind. Nothing sentimental. Nothing replaceable. That was my rule. I don't know what else to do but go to the mess. It's dark, it's open, and it's quiet. The doors are unlocked and the air still smells of our last meal—potatoes, broccoli, and pork.

A voice makes me realize I'm not there alone before I even see it. "Henderson. Couldn't sleep?"

It was the Captain. He and Ghost were sitting at a table with an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a deck of cards as a cloud of smoke wisped around them. Ghost isn't wearing his balaclava for the first time since I've met him. MacTavish has a half-finished cigar in his mouth. The cards are lazily strewn about the table, as if they were playing a game, but forgot about it or got bored with it.

I sit down at the table with them and grab a cig. Ghost pulls out a lighter and lights it for me before I take a drag. It's been awhile since I last had a cigarette. I don't normally smoke, but on nights like this it helps to calm me down. The taste of the cigarette is a welcome distraction from the taste of the dust cloud still lingering in my mouth from the dream.

"I usually only sleep a few hours a night," I say. It isn't totally true, but it isn't a total lie either. When I start having these nightmares, I only sleep a few hours on average a night. When I'm not having them, I sleep just as much as any normal person. Being injured and off duty may have sucked, but at least when I was in the sickbay, I was getting a good night's sleep.

"Welcome to the club," Ghost says as he flicks the ash from his cig into the tray.

"What was the game?" I ask.

"Who knows?" MacTavish says with a shrug of his shoulders. "We were playin' poker at one point and blackjack at another. I sort of lost track."

I take another drag of the cigarette then put it out in the tray. "Is this a nightly club, or what?"

"Most nights," the Captain answers. "In our line of work, I think you get used to sleeping less and less."

"Maybe," I say, thinking it over. Maybe it's true. Maybe the nightmares have nothing to do with it. After you're put in a situation like I was with Jengo Kwame, sleep seems more like a weakness than anything else. Too much of it can mean you're not aware. Unawareness will get you killed.

"Dreams," Ghost says after another drag.

"Nightmares?" MacTavish says as he chews the end of his cigar.

"Memories," I finish, and it seems like we're all in agreement: nightmarish dreams of old memories. "It seems like the past will follow us wherever we go."

"For better or worse," Ghost agrees, hailing with his cigarette.

It goes silent then as the two of them smoke and I study the white scarred knuckles of my folded hands on the table. There's an unspoken question lingering between us, at least from my perspective. I want to ask them. I want to know what memories, exactly, are keeping the two of them awake, and I can't help but feel that they want to ask me too. I don't say it, though. I know that if they ask me, I'll be reluctant to tell them. Sometimes, it just isn't worth throwing salt in old wounds. I can't let my curiosity get the better of me.

The silence puts something else between us, though, something that I feel like I can't breach. I feel like I'm imposing on Ghost and the Captain the longer I sit there. The Captain and his second in command—there are probably secrets between those two that I could never partake in, secrets that they would only share with each other, and I can't help but feel like I don't belong here with the two of them. The longer we sit here, the more I feel like we're lacking a vital trust between the three of us, a vital trust that makes a squad one, a vital trust that the two of them clearly share, just not with me.

I don't know if MacTavish senses my discomfort or my curiosity or what, but as he blows smoke out of his nostrils, he says, "Old missions." He snuffs the cigar in the ashtray and sticks the end between his teeth. Ghost hums in agreement. "One of my superiors used to make a game out of seein' who could make the most headshots," he says as he continues staring at the flickering light over our heads.

"How did you keep count?" I ask as I pick at my nails. They've been so abused over the years, there's practically nothing left to chew, but it seems like a good waste of time.

"We were all on the honor system," he answers. He laughs and adds, "I don't think we ever really kept track. The challenge was a good way to take the edge off before a mission."

"My old squad leader used to make a race out of everything," I find myself saying. "Whenever we'd split up, he'd say, 'Drinks on whoever gets there last.'" A laugh escapes my lips despite the glint of sadness I feel in remembering Sgt. Jackson's face. "Of course, if he was the last one there, he'd always say that it was never a real contest," I finish. I don't mention how he never made it out of the Middle East for any of us to make good on those contests. Neither did most of the guys who were involved.

"Old allies," Ghost says. I'm a little disappointed that he doesn't share a story of his own. I don't ask, though. His eyes look distant, like he's remembering something he doesn't want to. I can imagine the same look in my own face whenever I remember my old squad mates.

MacTavish puts the butt of his cigar in the tray, and then he reaches for the pack of cigs at the center of the table and pulls out three cigarettes, handing one to each of us. I take one, albeit reluctantly. I don't take his meaning. He pulls out his lighter, and after he lights all three of our cigs, he hails his cigarette towards the center and says, "To old comrades." I hail my cigarette in response, and Ghost follows suit. The three of us take a drag simultaneously then put our cigs out.

MacTavish gathers the cards from the center of the table and says, "So, what'll it be?"

"Seven card stud," I chime in.

MacTavish laughs. "Why that one?" he says. I can't tell if it's because he hates it or if his question is a front to hide the fact that he's never played it before. As he starts dealing us in, I know the latter isn't true.

I don't take the time to look at my hand before I say, "It was Sgt. Jackson's favorite game."


	5. Chapter 4, Part 1: Facile Ground

Everyone has people they hate—people who wronged them, people whom they envy, people who annoy them, or people who just plain piss them off. Shepherd is that guy for me. It seems like he has no regard for anything but the objective sometimes. I guess that's how it should be. He's the general. He's the man who has to make sure things get done. He still pisses me off. I don't trust him.

That's the thought that keeps rolling through my head as his vehicle appears in the distance. I keep hoping he'll turn around or go somewhere else, but he keeps heading for us over at the course. I can't help but roll my eyes when he gets close enough for me to actually see his face. Meat notices and laughs. I don't know if he feels akin to my sentiment or if he just finds me funny.

"You two, quit your rubberneckin'," MacTavish says from our observation point on the course. "You might learn somethin'."

I look back to the course reluctantly. The fact that Shepherd is approaching keeps nagging at the back of my mind, but I know watching Archer and Royce drill is more important. At least, I'm trying to think that it's important. I don't know how much I can learn from watching Archer in action—I'm no sniper. It happens to be one of my worst skills. Royce, on the other hand, shares a lot of my skills. Some of them I know I'm better at. I can take out an array of targets at close range much faster than he can. But the way he moves across the course is what's really important. Instead of picking the routes that focus on his strengths, he's paying careful attention to Archer's strengths. He lets Archer take out more targets than he attempts to take out himself. There's not a moment when they'd have a clear shot at him. That's something I'm not so good at; I've never been on a mission with a spotter before. All of the action in the Middle East was about bombardments and firefights.

I can hear Shepherd's truck pull up near us. My brows furrow when he hops onto the dirt and slams his door. Meat notices and laughs again; it seems like he's always finding something to laugh at. The phrase "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" pops into my head, and I can't help but wonder if he's thinking of it too, along with all of the other stereotypes of pissed off women. Although, if he was, I don't think he'd keep laughing at me the way he is.

"We have a problem," Shepherd says as he steps up next to MacTavish. MacTavish gives the man a quick glance and then directs Archer and Royce to stop the run and fall in. It takes about a minute for Archer to climb down from his perch and for Royce to weave his way through the rest of the course and head back up to the observation area. When they get there, we all turn to face Shepherd. If there's one thing about Shepherd that I like, it's how informal things are with him.

"We've intercepted a transmission indicating a weapons deal," Shepherd explains to us as he takes a drag from his cigar. He doesn't look nearly as frantic as he sounds. "The message suggested that Jengo Kwame is involved."

"No," the Captain says quickly. "Henderson killed him."

"Unless," I add carefully, "the man we thought was him was actually someone else."

Ghost chimes in, "Or unless someone else took up his syndicate."

"That's the way it looks right now. We think Jengo Kwame may have been a right-hand man rather than the head like we thought he was. He might have had another weapons establishment somewhere that's still supplying the trade," Shepherd says after another drag. "You have a new mission. We need to intercept the trade and find out who is actually supplying the weapons."

"When and where?" the Captain asks without missing a beat. I get the feeling these kind of informal briefings are pretty normal between the one-four-one and the general.

"The trade is slated to happen tomorrow in Minas Gerais, Brazil," Shepherd says.

"Wait, Brazil?" Archer says as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Jengo Kwame only operated out of Africa. That's where we found all facilities related to him. Why Brazil?"

"That's what makes this so vital," says Shepherd. "Either we didn't pick up on this activity before or it's a new development since Kwame died. They could be making a trade with another huge dealer or transferring their holdings to Kwame's replacement, maybe even his boss. Either way, someone is trying to cover their ass."

"But if it's the first case, if we simply didn't pick up on the activity until now," I start. Shepherd's eyes fall on me, and I'm not sure if I want to finish.

The Captain picks up on my meaning, though, and says, "If it's the case that we didn't pick up on the activity until know, what changed? This could be a lure."

"We can't take the chance that it's not," Shepherd says as he throws his finished cigar to the ground and gives it a good stomp. "We're sending in a team to check it out. You're it."

"How much time do we have?" MacTavish asks.

"Put together a team, six infantry, two support troops," Shepherd says. "You have until 1300 to get your team together." That was an hour from now. "This is a covert operation, MacTavish. Pick your team wisely."

With that, the general turns and hops back in his truck. I can't exactly say I'm sorry to see him go, but I don't think on it for too long. What I really think on is the fact that Shepherd sent me in and almost got me killed just so I could kill the wrong guy. What's worse is that if this trade is really a trap that just means he's sending more of us in to die on bad info. I really hoped it wasn't bad info.

"Archer, Worm," MacTavish says as he paces along the line of us, "you're on support. Ghost, Meat, Royce… Ozone… And Henderson, you're on the ground with me. Get your shit together and meet me at the heli-pad in 45 minutes. The rest of you will be on standby until further notice. Make sure you're ready."

Everyone shouts something different. There are a few "hooahs" and some "rogers" and whatever form of "affirmative" was most used in the military branch each of us was from. Then everyone disperses, except for me. I can't decide whether to be excited or worried by the fact that he put me on the team. On the one hand, I feel like I _did_ prove myself these past two weeks, like he trusts me enough to put me on the mission. On the other hand, I've only been here for two weeks. I've never been on a mission like this with them, and that could be a bad thing.

"Captain," I say before he gets away from me. He stops and turns, his face all business. "This is a serious mission. You're sure you wouldn't prefer someone else in my place?"

"If you don't think you're up to it for any reason, Henderson, I'll send Toad instead," MacTavish says.

"You know that's not what I mean, Captain," I hear myself saying, only I don't really _know_ if he knows. I think he does, but I can't be sure.

"You're a firefight expert, Henderson. If things go bad and we have to get in close, I can use you. Toad can handle covert operations better than half of us in the one-four-one, but if the shit hits the fan, I need someone like _you_ there," he explains to me. The corner of his mouth curls up as he adds, "Besides, Kwame was your target. I figured you'd wanna see where this goes."

"If my skills are the ones you need, I won't let you down," I say. I can't deny the fact that I _do_ want to see how this ends, but I don't want to say anything about it. It seems unprofessional and reckless. I don't like the idea of starting off a mission worrying more about my own satisfaction than making sure the rest of my team gets out alive.

"Good. Now, go prepare," MacTavish says, and he turns on his heel and walks away.

* * *

><p>Brazil is hot and humid and everything I hate. I hated the Middle East, too, but there it was just hot. I hate feeling like I'm drowning when I'm breathing. I hate how the sweat sits on my skin and gets sticky and won't dry no matter what I do. I hate how my breaths seem loud as I try to breathe in the watery air. I can just picture the enemy revealing our position from the sound of my breath alone.<p>

"I hate South America," I hear Meat say from the other side of the truck. "Why do people like living here?"

"I don't think it's as much about liking it as it is about not having much of a choice," Royce says. I can't help but laugh. Ever since we left, Meat has done nothing but complain, and Royce has done nothing but culled his complaints. Sometimes they sound like an old married couple the way they carry on. I do feel a little jealous of them sometimes, though. It's obvious they're close. It makes me wonder how long they've been friends.

The Captain and Ghost are a little like that, too. When they were explaining the plan to us, MacTavish would start saying something, and sometimes Ghost would finish his thought. It was almost like they rehearsed it. The others are used to it, I have no doubt, but it makes me feel a little out of the loop. It's like everyone met clandestinely before we all met at the heli-pad and discussed "the best ways to keep Henderson out of the loop." I hate feeling like I'm out of the loop. I have to admit, though, I don't hate it as much as feeling like I'm on the bench. I count myself lucky that I'm not among the guys who were on standby. I only hope I'm as useful to the team as the Captain thinks I'll be. Of course, I'm hoping more that we don't have the chance to find out.

The houses at the Aglomerado da Serra favela are so bunched up compared to the ones back home. It's like people practically live with their neighbors—and possibly their pests, too. A lot of the houses are also made of wood and other pieces of weak garbage, like tin. I can't help but compare them to the Middle East. Compared to the buildings we were fighting in there, these ones look like they're made of paper. A single explosion could send one into oblivion. I feel a glint of comfort when I think of the bright side—that the buildings won't collapse the way the one from my nightmares does. Of course, if the mission goes the way it should, we shouldn't have to worry about it coming to that.

Our base of operations is a small abandoned house near the trade point. The windows are all blocked off, so only the smallest cracks of sunlight are making their way into the room. The wisps of smoke from everyone's cigarettes or cigars are magnified in the rays. I'm not one of the ones smoking. I don't like that kind of calming feeling before a mission. I like knowing that my adrenaline is at work. The jitters are terribly close to the shivers, but they have a strangely validating effect. It tells me that I'll be ready to react to anything when the time comes.

Archer and Worm are studying the computers, checking channels and satellite, making sure everything works. The rest of us are studying maps of the areas, looking for quick ways out, alternate routes, possible ambush spots both for us and the enemy. It's a little dulling. It's kind of like studying for a test. You go over the information again and again hoping to ingrain it in your mind, but it seems like it already is ingrained and like there's something else you could be doing that's a better use of your time. In the back of my head, I find myself going over our provisions—what weapons we have, how much ammo, what medical supplies, and any other knick-knacks I can think of. I keep thinking back to Archer and Royce at the course and the way they worked together with perfect synchronization. If I can just do that, this mission will go exactly the way it's supposed to. That's what I keep hoping, anyway.

"Alright," MacTavish says in a hushed voice after we've been standing there for what feels like hours. "The trade will be in this building right here. I'm gonna set up a perch further up the favela. Meat, Royce, I want the two of you approaching from this end," he says as he point to the map. "Ghost, Ozone, and Henderson, I want you three to come from this side. Ghost will cover the decisions from there. You know the drill, Ghost. Leave ways out, but don't leave yourselves too exposed. If you see a better vantage point, take it, but don't take any big risks."

"Roger," Ghost says. He's back in his balaclava and red sunglasses. The mask I can understand, but I just don't get the sunglasses. It's a wonder he can see anything in this dark room. I can't ever tell what he's thinking either. Is he looking at the map? Is he looking at me? At MacTavish? Is he even really here? Or is his mind somewhere else entirely? I wonder if anyone else ever wracks their brains about it as much as I do.

"Alright," the Captain says. He takes one last drag of his cigar before he puts it out. "Get to your positions. This goes down soon."

Moving between the houses is a pain with how close together they are. Add that to the fact that the favela is on a steep hillside, and you get claustrophobia mixed with a mild sense of vertigo. Maybe I'm the only one who feels it, but just the same. If a battle broke out here, it'd be one irritating fight. Not to mention the civilians all over the place. I'm starting to see why they called in the one-four-one for this. It seems like it would be smarter to clear out as many civilians as we can, just in case, but that would give away our presence–if the enemy doesn't know we're here already.

When we get to our position, Ghost pokes at the blinds with his gun and peeks out the window. Ozone pulls up a radio and starts working on tapping into their channels. I think it's a long shot, but it's worth a try. There's not much for me to do but stand by the door and keep watch. There aren't many civilians outside. Maybe it's because it's nearing evening. Or maybe it's because they have some sense of what's going on. I have no idea. I just hope they get the hell out if the shit hits the fan.

In the coms, I hear the Captain say, "Ghost, are you in position?"

"In position, MacTavish," Ghost replies.

"Royce?"

"In position," Royce replies.

"Alright," the Captain whispers. "I have a good view of the building from here. It doesn't look like anyone's home."

"Likewise on this end," Ghost says.

Royce says, "Same."

"I hope this isn't a waste of our time," I mutter. The Captain hums in response.

For an infinitesimal moment, silence reigns. Then I hear the Captain say, "Wait a minute."

"A man just walked in," Ghost says. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising and the muscles in my shoulders tensing.

"You think he's a scout?" Royce asks.

"Give it a minute," MacTavish whispers.

"He's back out," Ghost says quickly. "He's waiting by the door. Two more just walked in."

"There are two more just up the favela from them. Looks like they're standin' watch," MacTavish mutters.

"Three more on this end," Royce says. "Same thing. Standing watch."

"I'd guess those are our guys," MacTavish says. "It doesn't look like they know we're here, but keep an eye out. Ozone, anything on the channel yet?"

"I'm working on it..." Ozone looks really stressed out the ways his fingers slide quickly over the knobs and buttons of the radio. He curses a few times under his breath.

I crouch down and whisper, "Let me give it a shot." Ozone stares at me with a blank expression, but he eventually caves. He moves to the side and hands me his headset. I hold the headset over one ear and fiddle with the channel with my free hand. It's been a long time since I've done anything like this. The last time I channel surfed over the coms was in the Middle East. I was looking for friendly channels then, but the basic idea is the same. For the first few minutes, all I hear is static. The next few minutes are no different. Static, static, and more static. I'm probably wasting my time, but it beats standing by the door watching for hostiles that aren't supposed to know we're here.

"A few more have walked in," Ghost says.

"The tangoes up the street haven't moved. There still aren't any lights on in the house," MacTavish adds.

"Think the target's in there already?" Royce asks.

MacTavish answers, "I don't know."

That's when I hear it. Words. Rather, a word. I didn't understand it, but it sounded like Portuguese. I leave the channel where it is and hand Ozone the headset. He leaps to his feet, looks to Ghost, and gives a slight nod. Ghost says, "MacTavish, we've got the channel."

"Ozone, can you get anything useful?" MacTavish says over the coms.

Ozone listens for a few minutes without saying anything. Then he says, "It sounds like the guy Henderson killed was Jengo Kwame after all. Sounds like the exchange is of his accounts." He listens a little more before he says, "They're mentioning an Alejandro Rojas. It sounds like he's the one who's getting the books."

"Is Alejandro Rojas inside?" MacTavish asks.

"I don't know," Ozone answers. "There's no way for me to tell from what they're saying." There's more silence as he listens to the enemy coms. Ghost and the Captain both confirm there's no new enemy movement in the time we're waiting for Ozone to tell us more.

"Ozone," MacTavish says, "what else are they saying?"

"They haven't said much more through the coms. It's been mostly silent on... Wait a second," Ozone mutters as he fiddles with the volume. "Captain, they've spotted you, they've spotted you," he shouts, and nearly at the same time I hear gunshots from across the favela.

"Damn it, I'm under fire," MacTavish yells through the coms. When his voice comes through, I can hear gunfire from the background, too, as well as the sound of distant screams. "Ghost, do they have your location," MacTavish shouts over the sound of the fire.

"Negative," Ghost says.

"Royce!"

"Negative," Royce says through the coms.

"Start heading for the exfil point. Archer, let Shepherd know we've got the name and we're pullin' out," MacTavish orders, gunfire in the background all the while. "Do not engage the enemy. I repeat, DO NOT engage the enemy. I'm gonna try to lose 'em in the favela. Going silent," MacTavish says.

"Wait, what?" I say quickly. MacTavish has gone silent before he gets the chance to hear me and doesn't respond. "What is he thinking?"

"It's for the mission. He doesn't want them to find out who we are," Ghost explains. "The more of us they see, the higher chance we'll be exposed, especially if any o' them have seen your face before."

"They didn't know who I was," I say. "It won't endanger the mission. And even if it does, who cares? We should make our way toward the Captain. The enemy doesn't know the rest of us are here. We can flank the enemy and get him out."

Ghost stares at me for a minute, and then glances back out the window.

"Ghost," I say, and he glances at me from the side of his sunglasses. "MacTavish is higher up in the favela. With the enemy between him and exfil point, he'll never make it there. We need to designate a new exfil point at the top of the favela. We can make our way up to the Captain, catch the enemy between us, and pull out. Plan A isn't going to work. We need a plan B." Ghost keeps staring at me and says nothing. I can't usually tell what he's thinking, but it doesn't take a psychic to know that the gears in his head are turning. Just a little more convincing is all he'll need. Just a little more…

"The Captain said you're in charge here. It's up to you, Ghost. It's not a big risk. It's a perfect opportunity."


	6. Chapter 4, Part 2: Serious Ground

When I was a kid in school, I always had this idea about military officers. I always thought they would be uptight, unforgiving assholes. Something about the way they were portrayed in films or on television gave me the idea, I guess. Media had a way of dehumanizing military personnel. They were either gods—Achilles-like heroes to be looked up to—or demons—horrific war criminals or hardened veterans with ice-cold eyes and hearts of stone. Lieutenant Vasquez and Sergeant Jackson were anything but. They were real people. They laughed like the rest of us. They experienced pain. They made mistakes. They were above me in rank, but they were still human, and every once in a while they needed help.

MacTavish was no different. He was human, just like me. He didn't go solo because he's invincible. He went solo because he was making a choice. Under the circumstances, that choice ended up being a stupid one. He made a mistake. But the mistake isn't what matters. What matters is that now he needs help, and we're the only ones who can give it to him. I watch Ghost mull over his own decisions now, and I think somewhere inside he's feeling what I'm feeling, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I can see him torn between his duty and professionalism and his loyalty and friendship. I tense up at the anticipation of which one will win. Will he make the stupid choice or the smart choice? How will we know the difference between the two?

"Archer, Worm," Ghost says after what feels like a lifetime. "Head back to the first exfil point. We'll radio back with our 20 for the second exfil point near the top of the favela. Royce, Meat, make your way up the favela. We'll meet you on the way. Do not engage the enemy until we've rendezvoused." A smile of relief creeps up the corners of my mouth, and I help Ozone get his gear together. "Ozone, any more traffic through the coms?"

"Negative," Ozone says. "They must have switched channels."

"Alright, Henderson. This is why MacTavish brought you," Ghost says. "Let's do this."

I nod, and we head out the window of the house we're in. We land on the rooftop of one of the houses below us and leap from rooftop to rooftop until we hit the street. Civilians everywhere are slamming their doors or running away from the gunshots coming from up the favela. The sun is dipping behind the hillside, and we have just enough darkness to move out in the open but just enough light left to see clearly. Either way, it wouldn't matter. The hostiles are chasing MacTavish. Just like I predicted, he's not going to be able to make his way down. Instead, it sounds like he's heading further up in the favela.

On the way up the street, we run into Meat and Royce. Royce takes up the rear, turning every so often to make sure we aren't being flanked ourselves. Ghost is heading up the front with Meat and I following side by side right behind him, and Ozone is behind us. Every so often when I check my corners, I come face to face with a civilian. The looks on their faces gives me a pang of regret. I really hope the civilians at the top of the favela get out before they get hurt…or worse.

It feels like an eternity going up the favela, but the gunshots are definitely getting closer. At some point, it feels like we've picked up our pace. The approaching of the gunshots seems to increase in speed. It takes me a moment to realize what that must mean. "MacTavish is pinned down," I say.

"Pick up the pace," Ghost says in response, and everyone's footfalls get a little heavier, our breathing a little more labored. Eventually, we're close enough that the shots are only a few blocks ahead of us—we can see debris flying through the air and civilians running away from the scene. When we come across some side streets, Ghost signals for us to split up. Meat and Royce head one way while Ozone, Ghost, and I head another. We start making our way through the empty houses, staying off the streets where we can. After going up two levels, I spot a hostile through the window directly in front of us. Ghost signals for us to spread out again, and Ozone and I head off in separate directions.

I exit out the door to Ghost's right after checking to make sure no hostiles are in sight to my rear. I run into the house next door and head up to its second level. I squat by the window and peer over the windowsill. "I've got them in my sights," I whisper through the coms. "On your go."

"Weapons free," Ghost says after one ephemeral moment.

Taking out the two guys is as easy as target practice, and they never know what hits them. My mind flits to MacTavish's story about headshot competitions as my shots pierces both of their skulls. The memory passes quickly as my thoughts linger over MacTavish. We have to get him out. I'll be damned if I lose my CO on my first mission with the Task Force. I'll be damned if I lose another CO at all.

Through the gunfire passing between the Captain and the enemy, they don't immediately realize we're there. I'm able to make my way a little further up the favela to take out three more tangoes before anyone starts firing back. On the one hand, getting shot at again is hell. It's been awhile since I've been shot at in a situation like this. Splinters and shrapnel scatter in my peripherals in slow motion, like insects that flit in and out of your vision but disappear before you can get a lock on them with your eyes. The sound of the debris flying through the air tickles my ear in a manner akin to a swarm of flies.

On the other hand, the gunfire tells me where exactly the enemies are. There are one or two trying to hit me from Ghost's 12, one from Royce and Meat's direction, and at least four at my 12. "Ghost," I shout through the coms. "I think the Captain is at my 12, maybe 11."

"Roger that," I hear him say as the whiz of a bullet silences the bullets coming from Ghost's line of fire. I focus on the sound of my heartbeat in my throat. Steady. Resolute. I poke out from my cover and take out one of the men firing at me. As the man falls down the stairs another man exits cover from inside the house adjacent to the stairs. I fire at him, miss, and fire again, hit the flimsy wall near his head, and get behind cover. Reload. I lean out again and fire another shot. The door behind his head splinters just after he ducks behind cover. The other two men near his position start firing at me from the window, forcing me into cover again. I lean out one last time, take the shot, and the man leaning out of the door goes tumbling down the stairs. His body lands on top of his comrade's and his limbs flop about like a ragdoll. One of the men in the window takes a hit, from Ghost I think, and falls forward into the street. I imagine a sickening crack when his body lands on the pavement. I take the opportunity to shoot the man's stunned neighbor. I can hear the grunt he makes when the shot hits him before his body bows out of sight.

Suddenly, the shots stop from both sides and the world is silent. I reload before I lean back out of cover, but I don't see anyone. Seconds later, I hear, "Cessar fogo, ou vamos matar seu soldado!"

Ozone comes into the coms immediately saying, "Shit. They've got the Captain."

"What if they're lying?" I ask.

Ghost doesn't bother considering the thought. "Hold your fire," he says.

I peek out from my cover again, looking for any sign of the enemy. The overhanging roof of the building uphill from me could be blocking my view from the enemy, and, if it is, it might be blocking their view of me, too. I crawl out from the house and shuffle silently over to the bodies lying at the bottom of the stairs.

"Henderson, hold your position," Ghost whispers through the coms. I turn slightly and see him behind cover not far from where I was previously hidden.

I ignore him. From the way he keeps glancing upward, the enemy must be within his sights. If they could see me, I would be dead already. Or the Captain would. The fact that neither of us are is a good sign that I'm out of their line of vision. I lean down to make sure the two soldiers at my feet are dead. The thought crosses my mind to take one of the headsets, but I decide against it. I can't understand Portuguese, so it would be a waste of my time.

I make my way up the stairs slowly, making sure none of my footfalls are audible. When I hit the top, I pull out my knife, take a deep breath, and then peek around the corner into the house. The last soldier I shot is lying on the floor by the window with lifeless eyes. Otherwise, the room is empty. There's a small step on the opposite side of the room leading to the room just uphill from me. I make my way towards it, silent, steady. I peek through the door. There are two dead bodies lying on the floor at the bottom of a staircase, but there's no window and no door. The only way to go is up.

I tiptoe up the step and into the room, still crouched to the floor with one hand steadying me while the other keeps a tight grip on my knife. I hear a sudden creak and freeze, taking a deep breath and holding it. As I hear the sound of another creak, I exhale. It wasn't me. I didn't give away my position. I know now, though, that they're right above me. MacTavish must have gone to the second floor and gotten pinned an overcome there.

"Henderson, what are you doing?" Ghost mumbles through the coms. I can't answer him. It's too risky. I hope that he has a view of the tangoes, just in case, but I won't rest my hopes on it. Still, I can't decide if this move is too risky or if it's a good opportunity. I hesitate a moment before I decide that there's not really any other option. Either they kill MacTavish and we all open fire again, or I try to free him, even at the risk of losing him. There's only one option that gives him a viable chance of getting out of here alive.

I step up the stairs carefully, hoping to god none of the steps are creaky. Ghost is still whispering into my ear, but I try my best to ignore it. One, two, three, four steps go by without one making a single sound. Five, six, no creaks.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Not a sound. There are just a few steps between me and the second floor, but I'm high enough that I can peek between the edge of the floor and the piece of furniture sitting up against the banister. I see four sets of legs. One of the must be MacTavish's. Judging by the positioning, it looks like he's in the center with one guy on each side. The other guy is standing closer to me just barely to the right. I don't know if he has a gun to MacTavish's head or what, but I can tell that the one closest to me is facing the window. The other two sets of legs are angled toward the center of the room. The fourth set of legs is dragging on the ground ever so slightly and facing me. It has to be MacTavish.

I take a deep breath, and another, and another to get the jitters out of my system. Adrenaline is useful. Adrenaline can get you out of a tight spot. It can save your life. But there are times when composure and precision are a necessity. Now is one of those times. I wouldn't want to lose control and end up missing or shooting the Captain. I continue breathing until my hands stop shaking. All the while, the men keep barking orders out the window in Portuguese. Nothing is coming in through the coms anymore.

Ten. I grip my M1911A1 in one hand and my knife in the other. Eleven. I take another deep breath and exhale it slowly through my nose. Twelve. I plant my feet firmly on the ground. Thirteen. I face the unsuspecting enemies. I shift my feet again slightly, making certain I have good footing. I'm in the perfect position to take them all out before they even get a chance to fire their weapons.

And then MacTavish glances over at me.

The gunman doesn't miss it. He turns around quickly while his comrades drop MacTavish and go for their sidearms. I slide my knife across the floor to MacTavish while shooting at the gunman. The first shot hits him in the middle of the forehead and his body slumps to the floor. MacTavish catches the knife with deft hands and turns to stab one of his captors in the stomach. The other man has his sidearm out and aimed toward me by the time I turn my attention to him. I pull the trigger. Two shots sound, one right after the other, and I hold my breath, waiting to see who drops first.

My bullet hits him through the shoulder and throws off his aim; his shot came a split second after mine. Before the man has time to recover, MacTavish turns and stabs him in the back three times. The man groans with each thrust, his eyes get wider with each stab. Then they roll back and MacTavish pushes his body forward onto the floor. Everything goes silent.

"Ghost," I say after about a minute of silence. "I'm with the Captain. All tangoes down."

I can hear his sigh of relief from the other end before he says, "Everyone, head to the exfil point now. Reinforcements could be on the way."

MacTavish leans over the corpses of the hostiles and takes their weapons. After slinging one around his back, he hands me back my knife and gives me a pat on the shoulder. "That was quick thinkin', Flash," he says before he walks behind me and heads down the stairs. I follow him down, and we meet Ghost and the rest of the team at the exit. Everyone is here, and no one looks injured. MacTavish looks satisfied, and, after he and Ghost exchange nods, we head out.

The way up the favela is clear, but after going past only a few houses, shots start whizzing past our heads. MacTavish shouts, "Get to the rooftops," and ducks inside a house immediately to his right. We all follow him in and scale up the stairs.

As we move from roof to balcony to roof, Ghost says into the coms, "Archer, Worm, we're at the top of the favela, ready for pickup! We're coming in hot."

"Roger that," Archer shouts into my ear. It isn't until then that I hear the chopper, like it didn't exist until that moment. I glance behind me as we leap along the rooftops and spot it coming around the hillside. I nearly lose my footing as we leap to the next roof and refocus my attention on the path ahead of me. I can see the end of the line coming up on us, and as the chopper loops around in front of us, I know that's where the pickup is going to be. A part of me wants to laugh at the irony of it all. It's almost like MacTavish planned it this way. It's a little too perfect.

The chopper pulls down, and I can see Archer standing in the doorway. He gives us suppressing fire as we zero in on the chopper. MacTavish leaps in first then leans in the doorway, offering his hand to each of us as we leap in the chopper. It reminds me of the end of a high school sports game where both teams line up and brush hands when they pass by. He squeezes each of our hands tight as we hop in, as if to say, "Job well done."

Royce, who was bringing up the rear, is the last one in the chopper, and the moment his feet hit the floor, MacTavish shouts, "Go, go, go!" The chopper seems to hang motionless for one impossible second as it shifts to the left, and then it pulls out with incredible speed. The hostiles keep firing at us, even as we pull out of range, and it isn't until the gunshots stop that everyone releases small sounds of relief.

After a few pats on the backs, we all go to the back to sit down. My legs are screaming at me. It's the first time I've ever had to run with that sense of urgency for such an extended distance, and we were leaping over rooftops at that. My knees feel swollen with the blood that's pumping through them. The minute my ass hits the seat, I can feeling a tingling relief on the bottoms of my feet. It isn't until my trigger finger loosens that I realize it was even tense. I start stretching it out—it feels like rubber—and MacTavish leans forward and laughs triumphantly.

"Ghost," he says with a laugh, "I thought I told you not to take any big risks."

"It wasn't my idea," Ghost says as he returns the laugh. "It was all Henderson."

"Quick thinking, and flashy moves," MacTavish says with a smile.

I shrug and laugh. I'm not exactly sure what to say to that. "It wasn't really," I start. "We didn't have much of a choice."

"Oh, no," Meat says with a huge, foolish looking smile. "This was all you. Someone has to take responsibility for how many times I got shot at today," he jokes.

Everybody laughs, and I find myself laughing with them. MacTavish gives me a pat on the shoulder and says, "To Flash." Everyone repeats it, and Royce punches me in the arm from his spot to my left. Meat mimics him—maybe a little too hard—and shakes with laughter.

"Flash, huh?" I mutter once the laughing and the cheers die down. "I like it."

"It seems appropriate," Ghost mutters with a smile—at least, his mask is smiling, and it seems fitting.

I can't help the smile the creeps into the corners of my mouth as the Captain says, "Welcome to the family."


	7. Chapter 5: Dispersive Ground

Getting back home the next morning feels a little like kicking my feet up after a hard day's work, only with debriefings and disassembling weapons and uniforms and wondering whether or not I have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again. I hope not. I don't think I could take any more close calls like the one we had with that mission.

Calling it home is a novelty. It _is_ home, but now it _feels_ like home. There was something about the name Lady Luck that always bothered me– specifically the implication that I was somehow constantly cheating death. Flash–there's something right about it, like it was the name I was supposed to have all along. Or maybe it feels right because I earned it. I didn't just pick it up from a fortuitous situation that involved someone else dying where I lived. Saving a life versus cheating death.

And it picks up as quickly as a bunch of hungry soldiers grab their rations after a rough mission. The mess is full of laughs as we eat our fill. MacTavish is the only one not there with us–he's giving Shepherd his full report. Everyone else is here, though, including the guys who were stuck on the bench for the mission. The meal becomes more like a tribal gathering of laughing and jokes and storytelling, and of course the story of my new nickname is at the top of the list.

"Not bad for your first mission," Worm says with a relatively straight face. Worm doesn't smile or laugh much. He isn't much of a jokester either. You can either give it to him straight or not at all.

I add my nervous laugh to the circle. I hope I'm not blushing. I hate being embarrassed. "How did you get your name?" I ask, eager to get the subject off of myself.

"Worm?" Worm asks, as if he didn't know I was talking to him. Ever the king of stating the obvious.

Royce laughs and says, "We could say something profound, like he thinks like he has two heads or something, but the truth isn't as storybook as that."

"Worm has this way of crawling out into the open whenever it rains," Meat says with a boisterous laugh.

Royce is right. The truth isn't as profound as the lie he would have told. I almost feel bad for Worm. That isn't exactly the name I would be okay with picking up. Even Lady Luck was better than that. "Worm" makes it sound almost like they thought of him as a piece of garbage when they came up with it. Everyone seems to respect him now, so the name is almost affectionate somehow, but I can't help but feel that it must still bother him on some level. Unless, of course, it never bothered him to begin with.

My feelings must be showing on my face, because Meat chimes in, "You think that's bad, you should hear how I got my name."

Royce steps in to explain. "Meat's dad's a butcher," he says with a laugh. "People started calling him Meat because he used to always smell like it." I can't suppress my laughter at this. On one hand, I feel bad for the poor guy. On the other hand, it's sounds so characteristically Meat. He must not smell like Meat anymore, or I think I would have noticed it by now.

"Ozone?" I ask, trying to make sure I don't make Meat feel bad, even though he's laughing too.

"Too green for his own good," Meat says, "and I don't mean he's a cherry."

Ozone laughs slightly and then sighs as he says, "These guys are always getting on my case because I'm eco-friendly." He emphasizes each syllable of eco-friendly as he says it.

"At least they didn't call you eco-friendly," I say with a snicker. "Imagine shouting that into the coms. It's too much of a mouthful." Ozone laughs again, but this time it sounds a little more genuine and a little less annoyed.

I get ready to ask about Ghost—I'm hoping there's a more interesting story behind his name than just his balaclava—but in that moment, the Captain comes in. His looks a little tense—I can't say I blame him. He makes his way across the mess and seats himself next to Ghost. While the rest of us give some sort of greeting—a nod here, a "hey" there—Ghost and the Captain only exchange glances. I guess that's just enough for them.

"How was the debrief, Captain?" Meat asks with a laugh. Maybe he's just happy, but it seems like he doesn't actually care all that much. Either that or he's expecting a "same old, same old" response. It doesn't surprise me. If there's one thing I've learned about Meat since joining the one-four-one, it's that he has trouble taking _anything_ seriously. I don't exactly approve—a jokester can only get you so far. On the other hand, he's always trying to find a way to lighten the mood. It reminds me a little bit of how Jackson was before we deployed. That didn't last long, though. I guess everything changes when you're out on the field.

The Captain knows Meat better than I do, but he's not smiling. He's not exactly frowning either. He looks pensive, like the debriefing is still swimming around in his head. His eerie silence quickly quiets the rest of us.

"It didn't go well," he says. "Shepherd's not happy."

"Not happy?" I can't help saying. "The mission was a success and everyone got out alive. What's not to be happy about?"

"We may have gotten the name, but the fact that our cover was blown made that success irrelevant," MacTavish explains.

"Irrelevant how?" Ghost asks.

"Alejandro Rojas and his syndicate have disappeared completely off the map. They've gone underground. There's no way to track them down, no com traffic. Now that he knows someone is after him, he's going to keep laying low. Unless he comes back on the surface, we'll never find him," MacTavish says.

"They're analyzing the make of the weapons you brought back for them, aren't they?" Archer mutters from the end of the group.

"Unless we find weapons that match the make, knowing the make won't matter. Shepherd and the higher-ups think Rojas will be too careful now. He's probably right," MacTavish says. "The mission is officially considered a failure."

I can't agree with Shepherd. We got MacTavish out alive. That's what should matter. What kind of squad are we if we leave people behind? I don't like the idea of results at all costs. Still, something is gnawing at the back of my mind—that I'm the one who convinced Ghost to go back for the Captain. If it hadn't been for me, the mission may have been a success. But then MacTavish would be captured or, worse, dead. Which is more important?

"Intelligence will be keeping an eye on the situation. If Rojas does come back on the map, we'll be ready. Until then, it's back to training as usual. What you do for the rest of today is up to you. We'll get back to drills tomorrow morning."

The sullen mood of the squad is pretty obvious as some of us finish off our plates and walk away without a word, me among them. Ghost doesn't miss it and says to the Captain, "Way to put a damper on the mood, MacTavish." The part of me that hates Shepherd's guts wants to laugh at this; why should I care what he thinks anyway? The part of me that wants to do my job doesn't find it funny at all.

Mission failure. It figures that the first mission I would go on with the task force would be a failure. I've never had a failed mission in my life—unless you count looking for Khaled Al-Asad inside a broadcast station and not finding him. Or unless you count going to the Middle East to neutralize a threat and the whole force ending up nuked. Or unless you count being sent to assassinate the head of a weapons trade company who isn't actually the head of the weapons trade company—would that count as a failure even though the misinformation wasn't my fault? Maybe they were all failures. Maybe not one mission has gone as planned since I joined the military. Stupid thought. Missions never go exactly as planned.

I want to kill Shepherd. I want him to stand in the firing range so I can blow his brains out. I want him to fight me one on one so I can beat the living daylights out of him. I want one stupid mission to go exactly the way it's planned just once. Just once.

The punching bag seems just as pissed off as I do as I beat the crap out of it in the rec room. It's the first free day I've had since joining the task force, and here I'm spending my time training after all. I should be taking it easy, getting my bearings after a mission. That's what normal people do. Not that I've ever been concerned with being normal. Normal people don't worry so much about what the person they hate thinks of them.

"Do you work this hard all the time?" I hear someone say with a laugh through the redundant thuds of my fists hitting the sandbag. Unmistakably Scottish—has to be MacTavish.

I take one final punch, and it goes silent. It isn't until then that I notice how heavy my breathing is. A bead of sweat drops onto my cheek from my brow, and suddenly I feel like I need a shower. I can still feel all of the dust and grime on me from the mission. I stink, too. The more I think about it, the more I notice it. Suddenly, beating the shit out of Shepherd doesn't seem as important.

"I guess when I get pissed off I stop using my brain," I say as I wipe the sweat off of my forehead and turn to him. He's leaning in the doorway nearby with a smug look on his face.

"Shepherd's an ass," MacTavish says. "Since when do missions turn out exactly the way they're supposed to?"

I take a few more deep breaths and say, "How'd you know I was pissed at Shepherd?"

"I didn't," MacTavish mumbles with a smirk. "Everyone's pissed about it. We were working under strict parameters with limited information. The chances of us pulling off that mission without being detected were slim."

I wipe my forehead again before I go sit down on a nearby bench and lean my elbows on my knees. "I'm sorry," I mutter, "if the general was pissed at you. It's my fault we were detected."

"The enemy detected me first, Flash," MacTavish mutters from his spot in the doorway. "Rojas probably would have gone underground anyway."

"Maybe not," I say. My voice gets slightly muffled as I lean my mouth on my fists. I almost start chewing on my knuckles, but I resist the urge. I thought I left that habit behind me a long time ago. Jackson would always call me a worrywart when I did it; I hated it. I guess bad habits die hard. "You were only one soldier. They only knew a big player was after them once we decided—once I made the suggestion to flank the enemy. If the mission failure is anyone's fault, it's mine."

MacTavish looks thoughtful at this and takes a spot next to me on the bench. He leans his elbows on his knees and lets his hands hang down comfortably. "Henderson, do you know why I recruited you?"

I could think of a million reasons why someone would want to recruit a person. I can only think of one reason why MacTavish would want someone like me. I lean back and smirk before I say, "I'm guessing that recruits with field experience aren't exactly lining up."

MacTavish laughs at this—I'm not exactly sure what's funny about it—and says, "Good guess, but no. I can't say that didn't factor into it, though."

I stand up and walk back over to the sandbag and grab my towel from the bench right next to it—I just _have_ to wipe off some of this sweat and grime. As I pull the towel across my face and underneath my braid and over the back of my neck, I say, "Okay, I give up. Why?"

"July 15th, 2011," MacTavish says. The blood in my veins freezes at the sound of it and my feet get heavy. I can only imagine the look on my face—thank god I have my back to him. After a few seconds of silence pass, MacTavish says, "You remember it?"

Flashes of debris, gunfire, blood, explosions, bodies, screaming, shouting, crying, rallying, adrenaline, sweat, footsteps, stabs of pain, labored breaths, friends' faces—all of it comes back to me as vividly as in my nightmares. Three years, and yet it feels as though it happened yesterday. It feels like the worst thing in the world would be reliving all of that. It takes me time to realize that the Captain is waiting for an answer from me. I have to swallow before I reply, "I'll never forget."

"You pulled a squad mate, one Private West, from a collapsing building," MacTavish says.

It takes every ounce of my concentration not to shut down right there, not to just walk the hell away without saying a word. Private West. West. His name was West. I have to keep breathing deeply to keep control. Whenever I think about that day, think about the look on his face, a huge weight settles in my gut. It makes me nauseous. It makes me cold. It makes me want to curl up in a corner somewhere and die.

I try to laugh away the quiver in my voice as best I can. "So you recruited me because you like having failures on your team. I get it. Makes perfect sense," I say with a smile, even though I'm not facing him for him to see. Maybe a smile is all I need. Maybe if I can just smile about it, that feeling in my gut will just go away.

"Even though the building was coming down around you, even though you were injured, even though he weighed nearly twice as much as you, you pulled Private West out of that building. Most people would have left him, but you got him outta there against all odds," MacTavish says.

I laugh again, only this time the lie is gone. "And he died anyway. Some rescue," I mumble. The weight in my gut is replaced by a tingling feeling at the edges of my eyes, followed by small pools of water building up in my peripherals. I blink them away quickly and take a few more deeps breaths. No crying—especially not in front of the Captain. How would that look? As if I haven't fucked up everything since day one already. It brings back the heart of the meaning "Fucking New Guy"—"Fucking New Girl" in this case.

I can hear MacTavish stand and take a few steps toward me. "You tried. You risked your life to save one of your comrades," he says with a disparaging voice. "He may not have lived, but you gave him more than anyone else in that building did. You gave him a chance. More importantly, you gave his family a body to mourn.

"You're the kind of person a group like the one-four-one needs. We're an elite squad. They give us the toughest, most impossible missions. If we're going to get those missions done, we need to look out for each other. We need someone like you who's gonna watch our asses when we get in the fire out there, no matter what. _That's_ why I recruited you."

I'm in control again. I can face him now. But part of me doesn't want to. A part of me still wants to run for the nearest door, to get the hell out of here and put this whole day out of my mind—I should have gone to relax in the barracks like a normal person would do. Despite my feelings, I turn to face the Captain and say, "You're putting a lot of faith in someone whose only act of rescue was a complete failure."

MacTavish smirks at this—again, I don't know what's funny about it. But then, he isn't really laughing. It's more like his mood lightened once I got back in control. Or maybe he's trying to help me get back in control by lightening the mood. I don't know. The more of these pep talks we have, the less I understand this guy.

"You've had two acts of rescue, now," MacTavish says. "And one of them was a success."

That did it. I wanted to be mad at the guy, as mad as I had been at Shepherd not fifteen minutes ago. But I can't. A smile forces its way up the corner of my lips. "I told you you'd pay me back," the Captain says with a laugh.

I give him a friendly punch in the shoulder—I instantly regret it. He's the Captain. Is that even appropriate? I've seen Ghost do it before, even Meat and Royce on occasion, but he's known them for a while. We've only known each other for a few weeks. Are we even on that level yet? I was never even that close with Jackson or any of the other guys in the 1st Force Recon. And now I'm just standing here like an idiot staring at him.

I can feel my cheeks get hot as I glance away and say, "Two pep talks from the Captain in a few weeks. I'm really not making this easy for myself."

The Captain laughs nervously at this—I can't believe I was stupid enough to give him a punch to the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. My first mission as the FNG went to hell too," he says. "I'll let you get back to it," MacTavish says with a nod to the sandbag. He gives me a friendly pat to the shoulder and, like _that_, he's outta here. Thank god. As if I haven't humiliated myself enough already.

The fact that I need a shower keeps lingering at the back of my mind, but I can't help myself when I go back over to the punching bag and have at it. Every punch feels a little easier, a little more controlled. My breathing keeps steady, and the clearest sound in the room is the sound of my fist connecting with the sandbag. I still can't help picturing Shepherd's face, but I feel looser. Calmer. Before long, I stop my relentless punches, wipe the sweat from my face, and head to the showers.

Private West. I keep picturing his face as I let the warm water run over my shoulders. West. The memories of his bludgeoned face are lingering at the top of my memories. Over that, I try to imagine his family. I try to imagine them receiving the news of his death. I try to imagine the funeral, the way they lean over his body as it lays in the casket. I try to imagine what it would be like without the body. An empty coffin. No body to return to the soil.

My mind inevitably trails off to the Captain's words in the rec room, and I can't help but want to kick myself—for so many reasons. Firstly, the punch on the shoulder—I still don't know what I was thinking. But there was so much more than that. The fact that he had to give me _another_ pep talk, for example. We're supposed to be the elite of the elite, and here I am losing my cool repeatedly. What is with that?

There's also Private West, of course, above everything else. The fact that I forgot his name… How could I forget his name? Beyond that, I still hate myself for the fact that I couldn't save him, and when the Captain brought it up, it was like salt in a wound. It hurts to remember it. It hurts to ignore it.

And then my mind goes back to the punch on the shoulder again. "What the hell were you thinking," I whisper to myself. What's worse is that I didn't even play it off well. I just stood there and stared at him. I probably looked ridiculous. Smooth, Elaine. Real smooth.

The handle for the water makes a screeching sound akin to car breaks as I shut it off. I slap my cheeks a few times. "Get it together, Elaine," I whisper to myself as the steam starts to dissipate around me. "You can sit here whining about humiliating yourself or you can stop humiliating yourself. Pick one." Why was this bothering me so much anyway? Why couldn't I just let this go? The last time I was this embarrassed about something was in high school when—

I try to push the thought away from my head, but it just keeps racing back into my mind with the ferocity of a wild boar. My knuckles turn red and raw before I even realize I'm chewing on them. Of all the people here, why did it have to be him? It couldn't have been Ghost or Archer? Hell, it couldn't have been Royce or Meat? No, it could never have been Meat, but why did it just have to be the Captain? It couldn't have been anyone else in the task force. Of course not.

For the first time, I recognize with intense scrutiny the one major peculiarity that sets me apart from everyone else, the one major peculiarity that I've tried to ignore since I joined the Marines, the one major peculiarity that I stop noticing in combat without even trying, the one major peculiarity that I can neither change nor control, the one major peculiarity that, before the war with the Middle East started, would have kept me from joining combat ranks and, ultimately, would have kept me from ever joining the one-four-one in the first place.

There was absolutely no way I was going to be crushing on the Captain.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Gah. Another chapter that I'm not so sure about. On the other hand, I think that's appropriate. This kind of change in a person, realizing that you like someone you know you shouldn't, is a very difficult transition for a person. It's a difficult emotion to flush out and acknowledge. Thus, I think the difficulty I had in writing the second half of this chapter is a direct reflection to that.

Oh, and the titles of the last three sections were inspired by Sun Tzu's Nine Situations from _The Art of War_. It's some interesting stuff. I suggest reading it sometime.

Take care~

HK


	8. Chapter 6: Hemmed In Ground

My hands are shaking with fear, but not the fear of what I've just done. Not the fear of what it means or why it happened. The fear, the intrinsic reluctance to observe the situation and move past it without consuming my mental resources, spawns from one fact and only one fact. It was so easy to pull the trigger.

It shouldn't be that easy, should it? Taking the life of another man should never be easy. What if he had a family? What if he had hopes and dreams like my own? What if he was a good person? What if he gave to charity or helped the homeless? What if he was someone's lover or husband?

What if, what if, what if. My trigger finger doesn't care about what ifs. That's what's so scary. I did it once. I'll probably have to do it a second time. I'll probably have to do it a third time and a fourth time, as many times as it takes before the conflict is over, and my trigger finger will obey me without a second thought as to who the man is or where he's from or what he likes to do or any of that stuff. It's too easy, but it's the hardest thing in the world.

Jackson doesn't have any answers for me. Vasquez doesn't have any answers for me. No one does. No one talks about it. It's like the elephant in the room that threatens to trample you if you speak a word about it. It's like the surface of the water that you can't seem to break no matter how hard you swim. It's like trying to reach for the moon and the stars and grasping nothing but air that inevitably slips between your fingers, and no matter how hard you try you can't get it back.

It doesn't get easier, and it doesn't get harder. Every kill is as difficult as ripping my heart out with my bare hands. Every shot is as simple as flexing my index finger. The only thing keeping me from breaking down and getting lost inside my own head is the little thing inside my brain that tells me to survive no matter what happens. That little thing manages my brain, files it out into neat little priorities, moving guilt somewhere deep in the back, and that hurts too, knowing that I want to care but don't have the damn luxury. I just keep killing, one person after another, clearing the way, completing the mission.

And then it always comes back to his face. I can't remember his name—no, West. His name is Private West. His face, the building falling, the people screaming around us, the distant shouts, West's empty eyes, stabs of pain, distant shadows shouting for my attention.

Tears. It always ends with open eyes and tears, harsh breathing, that terrible taste in my mouth—this time a headache. I could use a drink or a cig or something. Anything to take my mind off of this monster that keeps hiding under my pillow.

There's a light on in the mess again. My mind races back to the rec room, to me making a fool out of myself, to the abhorrent realization that, yes, I'm actually a woman and the Captain is actually a man. Damn the human libido. But it goes back to the nightmares. It goes back to the memories playing back in my mind over and over like a broken record. Those are the thoughts that overwhelm me as I walk into the mess. I need a cig, even if it means facing the one thing I'd rather not right now. I have to do it eventually, right?

Only MacTavish isn't there when I walk in. It's only Ghost this time. He's smoking a cig, but there are no cards on the table. There's a small radio sitting on the table playing music, some kind of soft, techno-like music that I don't recognize—I never was one for techno. It feels too much like it's trying to regulate the beating of my heart. Ghost's balaclava is clenched loosely between his fingers and the wood. He barely notices me as I walk in.

"Mind if I join you?" I ask. My voice breaks his concentration on the wall across the room from him, but he isn't startled. He simply glances over at me and nods to the seat across from him. When I sit down, he offers me a cigarette, and I gladly take it. The cigarette is a much better taste than the lingering debris, as always, and I can't help the contented sigh that escapes me as I breathe the smoke out.

Ghost isn't usually very talkative with me to begin with, but he hasn't said a word to me since we got back from our mission. He doesn't seem eager to break the silence now. It doesn't bother me at first—it gives me the time that I need to enjoy my cigarette, the time I need to calm myself down, to let the memories fade into tomorrow. The silence remains even after I finish my cig, and the longer it lingers, the more uncomfortable I feel.

"Back there," Ghost mutters—finally. He's already started another cigarette of his own, and it tempts me to want another, but I think better of it before my desire gives in. "If those soldiers had seen you moving in, they would have shot MacTavish."

That was definitely not what I was expecting him to say. "What?"

"I told you to hold your position, but you moved in. If the enemy had clear sight of you, they would have shot the Captain," he explains.

This is anything but a friendly accusation, and it makes me regret all of the informalities that have passed between us since we've met. "If the enemy _had_ seen me," I start.

He doesn't let me finish. "They would have shot MacTavish," he says, articulating every single syllable. He blows smoke out of his nose and puts out his cigarette before he's sighs heavily and starts studying the grains on the table. "They didn't, so things worked out, but they might not have," Ghost mutters.

I don't know what to say to him. He's right. I acknowledged that fact myself when I was moving in, but I pushed it aside. No big risks, results at all costs… Did I really do that? Did I really consciously take a chance on his life? We didn't really have another choice, sure, but it was still a gamble. "You're… You're right," I finally muster the courage to say. Well, here I was looking for a distraction from the nightmares. I found it.

Ghost sighs again before he says, "MacTavish got out because of you. No complaints about the results." He pinches the bridge of his nose, and in that instant I can see the bigger issue here.

"I," I begin, not sure how to put it. "You don't…"

"If we're in a situation like that again—bullocks, I hope we don't get into a situation like that again—but if we're in a situation like that again, how can I trust that things will go well if we aren't on the same page?"

In other words, how can he trust me?

I don't know how to answer that question. If it hadn't been for me, we wouldn't have been able to save MacTavish. That's what I keep thinking. If I hadn't had the balls to move in on the enemy and pull him out, he'd be dead or in enemy hands. I saved his life. There's no greater trust than trusting someone with your life, is there? Of course he can trust me. But he doesn't, does he? What would make me trustworthy? What can I say that will change his mind?

Ghost and I don't exchange any other words for the rest of the night. MacTavish never came to join us either, which was both a curse and a relief—a curse because he would have been able to end this awkward standstill, a relief because I'm still not sure how I'm going to face him now that I've been caught in the clutches of utter stupidity.

* * *

><p>Same shit, different day.<p>

As much as I hate the general, he's always been right about that. Until now. Leave it to me to take the one thing that's never been complicated, the one thing that I've always been able to manage and ignore, and turn it into a problem. _Different_ shit, different day.

I find myself worrying about how my hair looks the next morning, if I look too ragged, if the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep are the only things coloring my face. In an effort not to care about them, I avoid dealing with them completely—no splashes of water to my face to wake me up, throwing my hair sloppily into a bun instead of putting it in the usual braid, no efforts to make my uniform look crisp and clean where it's tucked into my pants and my shoes.

When the squad gathers at the course that morning, Meat is the first one to say something, of course. "You look like you got hit by a train," he says with a cajoling expression. His expression quickly melts when I don't smile back at him.

Royce comes to his rescue and says, "You seriously don't look good. You okay?"

"Just peachy," I say, finding a balance in my voice between irritation and humor. That doesn't seem to allay his concern—either for me or for Meat's protection—so I add, "I have a lot going through my head. Don't worry about it."

That seems to satisfy him, and both he and Meat turn away and start squabbling back and forth to each other about one thing or another. Every now and then, Archer joins in, barely taking his concentration away from polishing the sniper rifle in his hands. The others are discussing various things in groups here or there—Ozone and Scarecrow, Toad and Worm. A few of us are standing on our own, like Ghost. He's wearing his balaclava again, and it bothers me more than usual. I wonder if last night is nagging at him as much as it is at me. MacTavish isn't here yet, which is pretty normal. He usually gives us a few extra minutes to fall in before he shows up. Not that anyone is ever late.

When MacTavish does show up, something turns in my stomach. It's different from the weight I feel when I think about Private West; the feeling is completely unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and it paints a scowl across my face. "Seriously, Flash," Meat mutters from beside me as the Captain approaches. "You really look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Maybe I did," I mutter back with a glancing glare. It's for show more than anything else, just to shut him up, but the action comes a little too easily.

"Morning gents," MacTavish says jovially as he approaches—nothing beats another morning of squad training. What could be better? The first time he used that greeting, he saw fit to correct himself, but he long since gave that up. "Get the MilSim equipment. We're gonna stage a skirmish. Switch up the squads, switch up the weapons, and switch up the roles."

That was just great. I've gotten so used to working with Meat, Royce, and Archer on this course. I don't like the idea of switching up the teams. I can't argue with it, though. For the last several weeks, MacTavish was working on assessing my strengths, seeing how I would fit in with the rest of the squad. Now he knew them, especially after the mission the other day. This exercise isn't about optimizing teams. It's about unit cohesion, making sure that we can work with every other member of the squad effectively so that we aren't caught in a situation that we can't get out of.

And that means I'll have to group up with Ghost _and_ the Captain eventually. I'm making things more complicated for myself by the second.

"I'll head up one team. Ghost 'll head up the other," he says. "One team will be on defense. The other will be on offense. The idea is to move in on the target—the team leader—without being detected. Archer, Ozone, and Meat, you're with me. Flash, Royce, and Scarecrow, you're with Ghost. I'll head up defense to start. Toad and Worm, head up to observation. Just like with any real mission, be prepared to use hand to hand if things get in close. Incapacitating force permitted." In other words, be prepared to get hurt.

I don't miss the glance Ghost gives me when MacTavish calls out my name. For one impossibly long moment, the two of us are staring at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Then we fall in and pretend like it never happened. "Scarecrow, Royce, you two are on point. I want you to move in and assess the situation. Keep us updated on enemy activity. Once we figure out what's what, I want you two to draw their fire. Flash and I will move in on the target on opposite sides of the course. It'll be up to you to clear the way for us," he explains quickly and silently.

Great, he picked me for the stealth operative. Of course he did. Royce and Scarecrow aren't great at that stuff anyway. It's not one of my biggest strengths either. I'm suddenly jealous that MacTavish has Archer on his side. Other than the Captain, Archer has the best eye. That guy can see a fly on a wall one hundred feet away. I probably won't be able to get in very close at all before he spots me.

After matching frequencies, the four of us split up, Royce and Scarecrow taking forward cover while Ghost and I hang back. I can see Ghost from my cover. As soon as Royce says into the coms, "Move up," Ghost motions for us to move. I mirror his movements, only going as far forward as he does, stopping when he stops and making eye contact with him. Easy. But the course is simple here. It gets more complex up ahead.

"Forward left, clear," Royce whispers through the coms. Ghost signals for me to move, and I do. I keep my body turned so my side is leading and I crouch to shorten my height, thinking to myself, _small target, small target._ Up ahead of me is the building. To the right of the building is another path. Shortly after I hear Scarecrow say, "Forward right, clear," I see a glimpse of Ghost moving to the side of the building, and then he's out of sight again.

"No tangos on the roof," Royce says.

I lean out of cover slowly, carefully, steady, smooth breathing. I hear Ghost whisper in my ear, "No tangos visible through the window. Move up." I take another deep breath and another peek before I plunge for the doorway. Before heading inside, I keep my back to the wall, checking the right side of the room. It's clear. I quickly pivot on my left heel and check the left side of the room. No tangos. I head inside the building quickly and make my way up the staircase leading to the roof. I poke only my head up before surfacing, double checking to make sure Royce's synopsis is correct.

"Building clear," I whisper through the coms.

"Scarecrow, head up to the roof and spot from there. Flash, rendezvous with me in front of the building," Ghost says almost immediately.

I head back down the stairs, holding my trigger hand up when Scarecrow enters the building. We give each other pats on the shoulders as we pass. "Coming out through the window," I say over the coms.

"The way is clear," Ghost says through the coms.

I crawl out of the window carefully, landing on my feet with the lightness of a cloud. No sound, no quick movements. I quickly get in cover behind some crates, then pivot back and move toward the front of the building. Ghost is crouched behind a low wall a few feet in front of it. I keep low to the ground as I meet up with him. When I reach the wall, I crouch down on one knee to make sure my head is as low as possible while still having one foot on the ground to maneuver with.

"Royce, move up," Ghost says the moment I reach him. I spot Royce move at my two 'o' clock and duck between two more crates.

By this point, we're about halfway across the course, and I can feel my adrenaline picking up, even if it's only a drill. Ghost must feel it to, because he whispers into the coms, "Stay frosty."

"Front left, clear," Royce says through the coms.

"No tangos in sight," Scarecrow mutters.

Ghost signals to move up and the two of us jump the short wall and head for the next like clockwork, and we quickly pivot to head for the next one after that. The building at the other end of the course is less than one hundred feet away now. If Archer wasn't up on the roof before, I'm pretty sure he will be now. This exercise isn't about practicing our weaknesses. He's the best sniper we have, so sniping is what he'll be doing.

I have no ideas what the Captain would be up to with Ozone and Meat, though I can bet Meat will be in the forward defense. Ozone is better at intelligence than anything else. I don't know if the Captain would go so far as to have him trying to tap into our coms, but he's probably observing the battlefield from somewhere, looking for signs of the enemy approach.

The Captain is the one complete mystery. He's an excellent sniper, but also excellent in firefights. He's good as a forward infantry or a spotter. He could be anywhere. It almost seems unfair having him on the opposite team. Then again, Ghost is well-rounded too. I've never thought to compare the two of them before. They've always been on the same team during drills, and the greatest strength I've noted from it is their strength of working together. Who knows what will happen when you pit them against one another?

My adrenaline picks up suddenly when I hear Meat say, "Damn it."

"Meat is down," Scarecrow says from his perch atop the structure. "Two tangos on foot headed toward your position, at your twelve and three. They're about fifty feet ahead of you. Suggest relocating."

"Flash, fall back and cover me. I'll take right and move forward. Draw their fire; I'll flank 'em," Ghost whispers before he heads out. I pivot back and make my way back toward the low wall we were hiding behind before. Instead of leaping over it, I slide behind center cover that gives me a view of Ghost's range.

"Scarecrow, give me a sitrep," Ghost whispers into the coms.

"Tangos are—damn it," he says, his voice growing loud as he trails through. "I'm down," he says, and my adrenaline picks up even more.

"They've got our rear," Ghost says.

I glance behind me, peek out from cover, then behind me again. I back up, leaping over the low wall and putting myself between forward and rear cover. Either they got around us or the Captain was toying with the game. Either way, Ghost and I were caught between them now, and the best course of action would be to fall back and take out the enemies at the structure.

"Tango down," I hear Ghost say, and I know that I have to reposition to give him better cover.

I lean all of my weight on my heel to do just that when a figure comes around my rear cover and takes a swing at me. I barely have time to dodge it, and I can feel a brush of air pass my cheek as the fist does. "Contact with the target," I manage to mutter into the coms before MacTavish takes another swing. I barely dodge that one too as I lose my footing and slide backwards. MacTavish grabs my wrist and pulls without restraining any of his might. My body whips forward, putting my frontal face to the side. He takes a split moment to kick my gun out of my hands.

He pushes forward then, spinning me around so that my back is to him. He's ready to pin me to the ground. Instead of trying to push back, I use the momentum of my spinning and pivot further around, pulling my arm behind me. The leverage is enough to make the Captain lose his footing. There's a popping sound as I turn further and elbow him in the back of the head with my right arm. I go for it again, but instead he lets go of my arm and ducks, causing my swing to send me reeling out of control. I teeter forward and he pushes me down the rest of the way and pins me there with a knee on my spine, one hand clutching my right arm, and a thumb on the back of my neck.

"Down," I hiss into the coms after a defeated grunt. MacTavish releases his grip on me, turns—

And an explosion of paint colors the front of his vest. Only seconds later, I hear Ghost mutter, "Target down," just as MacTavish says, "I'm down. Game over." The echo of Ghost's voice tells me that he's close by, and seconds later he comes into view. MacTavish and Ghost grip hands and pat shoulders as I peel myself off the ground without leaning too much weight on my aching left arm. With the first round being an utter failure and MacTavish and Ghost getting all chummy like they just played a close game of Madden, it feels like they're patting each other on the back for successfully making my day a catastrophe.

"All right, fall in," MacTavish says, and I see Meat step out from cover in the distance behind Ghost. Ozone isn't far behind him, and the five of us make our way off the course, seeing Royce, Scarecrow, and Archer—figures he was the one who took out Scarecrow—leave the course on the other side.

Toad and Worm meet us as we exit the course, and the whole party is there. Despite our team having succeeded, Royce and Scarecrow have defeated looks on their faces. I can imagine that I look much the same, probably worse since I started the day out looking like shit. Meat looks pretty defeated too, and I gather he's the one that Ghost took down before the Captain got to me. Ozone doesn't look pleased or disappointed—I'm guessing he didn't see much action. With the big smile slapped on his face, Archer looks pretty pleased with himself. Ghost and MacTavish look like we just got done playing a fun game instead of running a drill. Well, Ghost is still wearing his balaclava, but his eyebrows are slightly elevated and there are bags pinched between his cheeks and his eyes, suggesting a smile.

"Close game," MacTavish says with a laugh. I knew he was looking at it like a game. "You got me good, there, Ghost. Didn't even hear you comin'." That was for sure. He moved across the field so fast without anyone seeing him or knowing he was coming. He was like, well, like a ghost. Maybe that's the reason for his nickname.

"How'd you get behind us?" Royce asks, his voice sounding more of complaint than question.

MacTavish laughs and says, "I had Archer go around the back of the course."

"You cheated," I say flatly.

"You know what they say," MacTavish says. "All's fair in love and war." I can't help but shrug at that, despite the pain that shoots through my left shoulder. The war part I can certainly agree with. The love part? Not so much. There wasn't anything fair about it. If only there was an off switch for that. I glance at MacTavish as he starts to speak again, and I can feel my cheeks get hot.

"The enemy isn't always going to sit around and wait for you to show up," MacTavish says with a more serious tone. "Most times they bring in reinforcements. Sometimes they use offense as defense." He smirks as he says, "Sometimes your targets are gonna fight back."

"And sometimes they still lose," Ghost mutters, and I can hear his smile in his voice.

MacTavish laughs and pats him on the shoulder, "Too right, mate. Nice work." His smile disappears as he gets back to business and says, "All right, take a quick break. Ten minutes. Then we'll switch up the teams and start again.

"Hey, Flash, you okay?" Worm asks after the group has mostly split into its subsections. He doesn't even have the slightest curl around the corner of his lips as he says it. I can't tell if he's making fun or being serious when he says, "You and the Captain really went at it down there."

MacTavish laughs again and says, "She put up a fight, though. I thought I was gonna take her out before she had a chance to fight back." Every time he uses the personal pronoun "she" something inside me cringes and my cheeks get hot. It's like every time he says it I become more keenly aware of the fact that I'm the only woman here, and, of course, I want to kick myself every time I think about the fact that it wasn't like this a week ago. Or yesterday morning, for that matter.

My mind is drawn away from its self-loathing when Archer says, "Something wrong with your shoulder?"

Archer points to my left shoulder that I'm still holding with my right hand, and it isn't until that moment that I notice the pain in my shoulder is still there. After the gunshot wound I received in that shoulder back at Jengo Kwame's facility, I guess the pain feels abstract. Or maybe my adrenaline was doing its job and kept me from noticing. Or maybe I was just too worked up about having been beaten to care. The latter seems pretty likely right now.

"I'm okay," I start as I take my right hand off my shoulder and try to roll it. Barely halfway through the roll, a sharp pain shoots through it and keeps it from going any further. I try it again with no luck—if anything the pain is worse the second time. The pain forces me to come clean, and I find myself saying, "I think it's dislocated."

One short laugh escapes MacTavish before he says, "Guess things got a little too heated." He does a beckoning motion with his hand as he says, "Flash, hold out your forearm at a ninety degree angle."

I turn so that my arm is facing MacTavish. The Captain grabs my arm—I get goose bumps instantly—and starts revolving my arm from left to right. Pain shoots through my shoulder the longer he takes and the further he stretches it, and I find myself biting my bottom lip. With a sickening pop, there's a quick stab of pain that forces, "Mother fucking son of a bitch," out of my mouth. Seconds later, the pain is distant enough that it only feels like a persistent soreness. I roll my shoulders, and this time the shoulder goes all the way around, albeit with some pain.

Archer laughs after my string of curses and says, "Sounds like your first dislocation."

"Based on how hard it was to set it," MacTavish trails off before he laughs. He pats me on the shoulder—I swear if I blush again I'm going to go jump off a bridge—and says, "You need to give that shoulder a rest and put it in a sling. Ghost, you'll head up the defense with Toad and Scarecrow. Royce, head up the offense with Archer, Ozone, Toad, and Worm."

"Sittin' this one out, Captain?" Royce says with a smug look on his face—he must be excited.

MacTavish laughs in confirmation and says, "Don't let Ghost beat you too badly. Flash, let's go sling that arm."

Great. I had to be on a team with the guy who doesn't trust me, I got in hand to hand combat with the one person I'd just as soon not touch in any way, I was useless to my team during the drill, and I'm the only one who sustained an injury. Just in case I didn't single myself out enough already today, let's head over to the infirmary with the Captain and see what other shit I can stir up.

The infirmary is empty when we get there. "We don't have a doctor on call?" I ask as we go through the door, trying to take my mind off the fact that I'm alone with the one person I'd rather not be alone with. It's surprisingly easy with the pain in my shoulder slowly intensifying.

"Archer is our go-to guy for most injuries, but the doctor from the other side of the base is on-call if we need her," MacTavish says as he starts rummaging through the drawers looking for a sling.

"That makes sense," I say. "He was the one who patched me up after the Jengo Kwame thing."

"I'm surprised you remember that," he says. "You were pretty out of it." He suddenly pulls up a sling with an, "Ah-ha," and walks back over to me.

"It's hard to forget when someone saves your life by dragging you out of danger," I mutter as I set my arm in the sling and loop the strap behind my neck. It isn't until my arm is comfortably in the sling that I realize how embarrassing that sounds, and my cheeks get hot at the thought of it.

"I'm sure Private West felt the same way," MacTavish says. The thought of West brings back everything again, and I have to sit down in a chair by one of the few cots in the room. I must look angry, because MacTavish misinterprets me and says, "Sorry, Flash. I'm not tryin' to pry. You just seemed upset about it yesterday."

"It's not that," I find myself saying, and I instinctively try to move my arm in an apologetic gesture, but the pain causes me to remember myself and stop. "What you said was... nice," I say before I think about it, and I regret each word as I say it. Once they're out, though, the regret fades and I find that I want to keep going, so I do. "Private West was...new to the unit, like I was. I never talked to him much, but I looked up to him. Lieutenant Vasquez and...Sergeant Jackson...really trusted him. I... I don't know why I'm telling you this," I say with a light laugh following it.

"Hey, you're one of the family, Flash. Feel free to speak your mind," MacTavish says as he sits on the cot across from my chair and leans his elbows on his knees.

"I couldn't remember his name," I mutter to him, the words flowing from me like water flowing through an open sluice gate. "I see his face all the time, but for three years I haven't been able to remember his name, so... Thank you."

The Captain is silent as he sits up, and for the first time I spot surprise in his blue eyes. Then he says, "You're welcome."


	9. Chapter 7: Desperate Ground

**A/N: **A few minor edits have been made for consistency with the next chapter, which is now up.

Cheers~

HK

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><p>I dislocate my shoulder again at least three more times in the next few weeks until Archer decides to show me ways to set it by myself if I have to as well as officially decides that I need to stop training at all until the ligaments heal. The discomfort and pain from my arm does wonders for keeping the nightmares away, but occasionally it keeps me awake just as the nightmares would. I avoid the "night club" in the mess hall despite my frequent insomnia. I always follow Ghost's orders to the letter during drills, but drills are different. Drills won't win back his trust. A million and one things could go wrong on a mission that causes someone to reinterpret or ignore orders, like I did when I went after MacTavish. It's going to take a situation just as tense to get him to trust me again—if he ever did in the first place.<p>

Ignoring my other problem is easy when I spend all of my time alone practicing hacking skills, which I knew next to nothing about until Ozone pulled me aside and showed me the ropes. I spend most of my time in the weeks it takes my shoulder to heal hacking tasks that he's developed specifically for my practice. When it does finally heal, I jump back in the fray with more skirmish drills. Some of the scenarios the Captain gives us have special conditions to give us more strained practice.

Eventually the Captain starts grouping us according to our strengths again. I find that during offensive firefights I work best with Royce, Meat, and Archer, and during stealth skirmishes I work best with Ghost, MacTavish, and Archer. Since Archer and I are pretty much in every grouping together, we become pretty chummy, and I start stealing most of my smokes with him. I also start picking up first aid tips from him so I'll have them just in case, though, I hope that if anyone is ever really in need of emergency treatment he'll be there. I'd just as soon not have someone's life resting on my limited medical skills.

Months pass before we hear from Shepherd again, two long, steady months that feel like a lifetime. I almost don't believe it when we hear from the Captain that Shepherd will be briefing us for a new mission. As soon as my senses kick in, I remember how much I hate the guy and wish that he'd do an informal briefing with the Captain instead of having all of us fall in. On the other hand, there's something pleasantly familiar about the official nature of it all. I never thought I'd miss that when I joined the one-four-one.

Shepherd looks unusually formal for once—I think it's the first time I've seen him without a cigar in his mouth. He's not the only there, either. There's another man there with him, a black man wearing a Rangers uniform. "Gentlemen," Shepherd says as we all fall in. He stops and glances at me and adds, "Ladies," in a small voice. The distinction is completely unnecessary, of course, and something tells me he's aware of it, like he's just yanking my chain to piss me off. It's working.

"This is Sergeant Foley," Shepherd continues. "He heads up one of the squads that's still cleaning things up over in the Middle East." Sgt. Foley gives a slight nod as if in greeting and glances back to Shepherd. Not even a smile. This guy looks like he's all business. "Gentlemen," Shepherd starts, and thankfully he doesn't distinguish the other category, "we're hunting down some covert squads, and we're short on recon. You'll be backing up Sgt. Foley's unit for the mission."

The Middle East. I can't exactly say the idea brings back pleasant memories. I haven't been back to the Middle East in three years. The day I got pulled off the field with a busted leg and all torn up by shrapnel was the last day I laid eyes on it. I haven't been avoiding it, not exactly, but I've been glad not to go back, and here we were about to go on a mission there, and a recon mission at that. I'm not looking forward to this as much as I thought I was going to.

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><p>It's hot in the Middle East. Of course it is. It's a heat I'm too familiar with, dry and one hundred and thirty degrees. After heat like that, eighty degrees feels cold. I'm not looking forward to that when the mission is over. I spent a month after being pulled out of this place shivering in a seventy degree sickbay, and the fever I had from my injuries the first few weeks definitely didn't help.<p>

"Why can't we ever get missions somewhere cool?" I find myself saying as we sit in the truck heading to our deployment spot. A soldier, one PFC Dunn, is sitting in the truck with us. He's the one Foley assigned to come with the reconnaissance group made up of MacTavish, Archer, Royce, and me, and the only one here who understands Dari and Pashto. The other recon team, is made up of Ghost, Meat, Ozone, and Worm with a Private named Allen, and they're all miles away heading to another deployment spot. The rest of the one-four-one is either backing the Rangers or on com support.

"You're startin' to sound like Meat," MacTavish mutters with a laugh.

"I don't need to start telling you to shut up, too, do I, Flash?" Royce asks, and we all laugh.

"Hey, you've only been here for a few hours," Dunn says from his corner of the group. "I've been here for months." I know the feeling, I want to say, but thinking about it only puts my mind back in unpleasant places, so the words never come out.

I'm also nervous, and joking can only get me so far. I've been put in charge of tapping into transmissions for this group, just like Ozone was for the other group. I'm suddenly thankful that I've gotten a lot of practice thanks to Ozone. I'm a little nervous about being in charge of something so vital, though I've actually gotten pretty good at it. That dislocated shoulder was good for something, I guess.

The building we are setting up shop in is a dilapidated four-story piece of crap that sits somewhat alone in the area. I don't like the idea of setting up shop inside. It reminds me too much of the building that collapsed around me three years ago. Mission or no, if anything happens inside you can bet your ass I'll be the first one outta there.

A bomb squad goes in ahead of us while team Alpha, made up of Sgt. Foley and some of his men and accompanied by Scarecrow, start heading out into the city. You can never be too careful, and having the bomb squad there actually makes me feel a whole lot better about going inside. I won't have to constantly be on edge about the damn thing blowing up.

We wait as the bomb squad goes inside. It's amazing how tense it makes all of us feel. We aren't even the ones inside, but we can feel the tension that the bomb squad has as they scope out the building, constantly at risk of setting off an explosion. When they notify us that they've found one and are disarming it, my heart jumps in my chest. Just the idea that we might have gone in there and triggered that thing sends my heart racing, and it's not over yet. If anything goes wrong while they're disarming it, they could be history.

Every second passes like a lifetime while we wait for either their okay or an explosion. The okay comes first, and everyone exhales the breath that they probably didn't even know they were holding in. I had no idea myself. They continue searching the building, and every breath feels careful, calculated, as if the slightest inconsistency in tempo will cause complete chaos to break out.

The words, "Building clear," release all of the tension in my shoulders. Sometimes covert operations can be much more stressful than open battle. Open combat happens so quickly, your adrenaline pumps so hard that it's impossible to think about anything but the present. Operations like this make me feel like I'm standing in front of someone who has a gun at my head and I'm waiting to see whether or not they're going to pull the trigger of this gun that may or may not even be loaded. There's so much anticipation at things you have no care to anticipate.

When the bomb squad comes back out of the building, our squad heads back in and sets up shop on the fourth floor of the building. MacTavish and Dunn set up an antenna to help pick up radio transmissions while Archer helps me set up my equipment for both tapping into satellite transmissions and radio transmissions. Royce covers the door just in case any unexpected guests arrive.

Once everything is all set up, MacTavish says into the coms, "Team Alpha, Bravo is set up. Alpha, do you copy?" He glances back to Archer and me.

"Team Alpha, do you copy," Archer repeats. When no one responds, I try into mine, and then Dunn and Royce into theirs. I quickly check the laptop for the satellite feed of the area, but the picture is blinking with static.

"We're getting interference," I say to him.

"Could be a sandstorm in the area," Dunn says. "They block our communications sometimes. Switch to radio, 175.61."

MacTavish takes Dunn's advice and switches his communications to radio, and the rest of us follow suit. Once we've all switched to the designated channel, MacTavish repeats, "Team Alpha, do you copy."

Sgt. Foley's voice comes through the coms less than crystal clear, but I can understand him. "Copy that, Bravo. Satellite communications are down. Looks like there's a storm a couple of miles out. We'll have to stay on radio." I make an okay sign to the Captain, and Dunn, Archer, and Royce all do the same.

"Copy that, Alpha," MacTavish says. "We're set to go on this end."

"Copy that. We're Oscar Mike. No enemies detected so far," Foley says.

I get to work on tapping into coms, surfing through the radio while simultaneously doing what I can on the laptop. The interference is pretty bad, and I don't make much progress. This whole tapping thing is definitely not a good job to take on for someone who requires a strong sense of accomplishment. I feel like I'm on a treadmill, running and running without ever actually getting anywhere.

"Nothing yet," I say to the Captain after a few seconds, or maybe it's been a few minutes. Time feels funny in a silent room, especially when it feels like everyone's staring at you, like everyone is waiting for you to do something.

"Did you hear that?" Archer suddenly says. I didn't hear anything, but maybe I was too absorbed in tapping into transmissions to notice.

"Sounded like voices," MacTavish mutters. "Archer, Dunn, head up to the roof and scope out the area." Archer and Dunn quickly give a nod and head out the door and to the stairs in the hallway. When MacTavish notices my eyes follow them out the door, he says, "Stay frosty." It's enough to click me back into what I'm supposed to be doing, but I keep one of my ears open to my surroundings this time.

"Captain," Archer says a few minutes later, "I thought I saw someone head into one of the buildings northeast of here. Could've been a civilian. I didn't get a good look at them."

A single laugh escapes me when I hear that. Civilian? Yeah right. A lot of the houses in this area are abandoned. There aren't many civilians in this area. If it _is_ a civilian, it's a stupid one. MacTavish seems to be thinking the same thing I'm thinking when he says, "Keep an eye out. Flash, anything yet?"

"The damn satellite feed is too messed up," I say. "I can't get anything from it, and there's a little interference in the radio traffic, too."

"If the enemy is out here somewhere, they'll be having the same problem," MacTavish says. "Just keep an ear out."

I don't let up. I don't know how much times passes as we sit there waiting to hear something, anything in the com traffic. Foley checks in every now and again. Team Alpha still hasn't reported any activity, and I'm starting to wonder if we aren't spending our time out here worrying our asses off for nothing. Or maybe it's just me worrying my ass off. I don't like the idea of surprises.

I stop noticing the sweat that's soaking my undershirt and caking my brow. Eventually it starts feeling cool against my skin, but only a little. My breathing is still a little heavy from breathing in hot air. The Captain and Royce don't seem any more comfortable than I do, but at least we're in the shade. Archer and Dunn are probably roasting their asses off.

"Still no sign of any movement," Archer says.

"I don't like this," Royce says. Good. So I'm not the only one with a tingling feeling running up my spine.

"Stay frosty," MacTavish repeats adamantly, his irritation pretty visible in his eyes. I don't know if Royce is just pissing him off or if he feels just as uneasy about this as we do. My bet is on both being true. I feel the same way Royce does, but his voicing it isn't helping anyone.

It starts with a rumble, an impossibly long vibration that, in reality, only lasts for a few seconds. I feel it shake my equipment and send vibrations through my fingers. I feel it through the ground, causing a tickling in my knees. For one infinitesimal moment, my heart stops in my chest, my breath gets caught in my throat, and my blood chills in my veins.

Then there's a violent burst, sending vibrations from my eardrum, through the three small bones that pass the vibrations on to my cochlea and from there to my brain that cause an indescribable pain in my head and leaves my ears ringing. A tremor comes through the floor sending me onto my side while spilling my equipment all over the place. Royce falls to his knees while gripping the threshold with another hand. The Captain's back slaps against the wall as he pushes his legs against the ground to keep himself on his feet.

I quickly get back onto my feet and exchange looks between Royce and the Captain as Dunn says through the coms, "Where the hell was that?"

Royce responds almost before Dunn finishes his sentence. "I think it was on the lower floors," he says.

But a rumble takes my mind away from their words, and the shaking in my legs causes my blood to freeze all over again, causes my heart to beat out of control. The vibrations didn't stop. They're still going, only this time there's no earth-shattering sound that sends pain straight into my head. There's just a constant sound, a sound of rumbling, of roaring. A sound that I'm all too familiar with.

"The building's coming down," I hear the Captain shout, only the sound is far away, distant somehow, as if he's shouting into a balloon. "Evacuate, now!"

My legs have turned to stone. They won't move. I can't speak. My eyes won't seem to blink. It's like I'm standing in a shell, like the strings that move me have all been severed, but I can still feel. I can still feel the pain in my legs and my arms and my neck as my muscles tense to their maximum potential. I can still taste the dust as pieces of the wall and the ceiling start to crumble. I can still hear the roaring of the building, it's testament to its ravenous hunger. I can still see West's empty eyes staring into my soul.

"Elaine!" I hear suddenly. It's like two hands have grabbed me from behind and pulled me out of deep water. The minute I hear my name, the sounds around me erupt like an explosion. The strings that move me begin to tingle, and I know I can move my legs again. I know I can blink. I know I can speak. In front of me in the doorway, two eyes stare back at me, angry and goading. Not West. It's the Captain, and he's trying to get my attention. Royce is standing behind him with wide eyes, looking like he wants to be anywhere but there.

I have to move my feet. I have to get myself out of here, or I'm going to die. Like lifting an anvil, I lift my right leg and set it in front of me. My left leg comes more easily, and by the time I go to lift my right foot again, I'm ready to sprint. My legs take off, carrying me across the length of the room and pushing me past MacTavish through the door.

Royce takes off the minute I reach him, leading the way down the stairs. Each step is unsteady as the building rocks with the tremors of explosions and crumbling debris, but I stay on my feet. I keep moving forward without looking back. A voice from behind me, the Captain's voice, pushes me forward when it says, "Keep moving!"

The stairs down to the second floor are worse. The shocks rock them violently until the vibrations that surround us aren't caused by explosions. The ceiling has started to crumble, and just when I think I've won, just when I think I've beaten back the nightmares, the floor crumbles in front of us. I jump instinctively; there's nowhere else to go but forward. We have to get out of this place no matter what.

A familiar snapping sound fills my eardrums, only this time there's pain, and there's a lot of it. I can barely hear the rumbling of the building beyond my own scream. For the slightest moment, I have the control to stop squawking, to look down at my leg. I see an image of my mind of my bone protruding from my leg, but I can't see anything beneath my pant leg. I slap myself a few times on the cheeks. This isn't real. This has to be a lie. I have to be dreaming. I'm stuck in the past. I'm reliving it.

But the pain is telling a different story, and when I see Royce stand up from in front of me, leaning his weight mostly on his left leg, I know that it's real. When I search the debris surrounding me for West and don't see him, I know I'm not dreaming of the past. When I feel the throbbing in my leg, I know it's really broken. When I see the look the Captain gives me from my peripherals, I know that I'm in trouble.

But there's something else there. Panic? Worry? He's looking at me, but he's not just looking at me. He's looking at something else. I try to figure out what it is. I look to my left. The wall beside me is still standing. I look to my right. The Captain is making his way across the rubble to me. I look in front of me. Royce is swinging his arm wildly toward the exit. I glance behind me. The ledge we've just jumped from has collapsed to the ground. I look above me.

And everything goes black.


	10. Chapter 8: Architect of Decay

_He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery. - Harold Wilson_

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><p>I awake to the uncomfortable feeling of rubbing against my sternum. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes every ounce of strength I have to lift them. I only manage to lift one—there's something crusty holding my other eyelids together. The light that creeps in through my right eye brings my attention to the pain in my head, and I don't see anything at first. I close my eye and try again, opening it more slowly than the last time.<p>

"She's responsive," I hear someone say. "Flash. Flash, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

For a moment, I don't recognize the fuzzy figure above me. As the light continues to flood into my eye, the corners of the shape become crisper and clearer, and then I see Archer's face staring down at me, covered in dust and dirt.

When I go to speak, my voice comes out in a series of grunts and groans in reaction to the pain in my head and my leg. I finally manage to squeeze out, "Son of a bitch," through clenched teeth. I move to touch my hand to my head, but another hand grabs it and pulls it back down to my side. I can feel another pressure holding my leg down, keeping me from trying to pull it up toward my torso.

"Flash," Archer repeats, "Do you know who I am?"

"I'm not blind, Archer," I mumble, and I think_, not yet, anyway._

"Flash, do you remember what happened?" My mind flashes through the memories before I can grab onto one and put it into words. The pain—it's just too much. I can't— "Flash, I need you to tell me what happened."

The memories blink through my mind again, and this time I try to grasp them. "There was an explosion. The building started coming down around us. There… I looked up and… got hit by something."

"No signs of memory loss," Archer says to someone. "That's a good sign." I try to turn my head, to see who else is here with us, but it doesn't go very far before the pain in my head stops me. Then I feel a touch to my leg, and I yelp out in pain. "I need to make sure the bone is set properly," he says to the person.

"Dunn, keep trying to contact base and team Alpha," a voice responds. From the sound of the accent, it's MacTavish. Seconds later I spot him moving over to my left side.

"I'm gonna need you to hold her down," Archer says to MacTavish. "Flash, this is gonna hurt."

"It already hurts," I mutter through clenched teeth, but no one laughs at my wisecrack. It isn't until then that I notice the shoe missing from my right foot and my pant leg is rolled up a little. MacTavish leans over me and holds down my arms with one forearm across my chest. Part of me wonders if it's really necessary. What am I going to do? Swing my arms around? Punch someone? It won't stop the pain—

Everything goes white. I clench my teeth together so hard that my jaw actually hurts and I'm afraid that my teeth are going to crack. My abs tense in response to the pain, and my torso goes shooting up, or it would if the Captain wasn't holding me down. Fighting against his strength is as hard as trying to dig my way through a cement column with my fists. The pain feels like what I can only describe as scraping an open, infected wound against a rock face while stabbing it and punching it and banging it with a hammer and whatever other types of injuries can be inflicted upon it. It's like taking a rock and grinding it against my bare bones. The pain doesn't last long, and yet it lasts a lifetime. Tears make their way to the corners of my eyes, and the wet lubrication is enough to get my left eye open again. The fleeting pain leaves my hands trembling. The enduring pain of my leg and my head feels downright merciful compared to the resetting of the fracture.

"It's seems like a solid fracture, but the bone is still in the right place. That's all I can do for now," Archer says as he sticks my shoe back on my foot, and MacTavish releases his grip on me.

"Is everyone else okay?" I manage to muster through the stabs of pain.

"Royce got out with a broken arm and a fractured ankle," Archer says as he helps me sit up against a nearby wall. The rushing blood in my head makes my vision go black for a split second. I take the opportunity to feel the lump on the left side of my head. It's tender as all hell and definitely bloody, but I don't think I was hit hard enough for my skull to fracture, which would just be one more headache on my plate—no pun intended. I can feel the swelling in my lower leg, and I'm sure it's bruised to all hell around the break. "You and Royce got the worst of it, but nobody got out of there without bumps and bruises."

"Where are we now?"

"We're in the basement of a small house not far from where we set up shop," MacTavish answers. "Dunn and Archer took care of the hostiles, but we're lying low in case there're more."

"And we can't contact Alpha," I say. "Lovely."

"Or base," Royce adds from the wall across from me. He sounds like he's in just about as much pain as I am. The look on his face is serious, all business, and you'd never think he was in any pain at all just by looking at him.

"They'll send in support to extract us," I say.

"Probably not as soon as we'd like," the Captain utters, and I can't help but agree. They aren't going to drop into the area blind, which is exactly what they are without being able to contact us. They'll have to come up with some other solution, of which there are probably a few, but I don't bother to imagine them. The pain is the only constant thought I can seem to keep—it's even more persistent than the damn demon that sleeps under my pillow at night.

Suddenly there's a cigarette in my face. MacTavish is holding it out to me with a lighter in his other hand. I take it like a gift from god and stick it in my mouth after he lights it. It's nowhere near as helpful as a damn anesthetic would be, but every drag makes me feel a little better. Only a little. "We can't wait here," he says as he sticks the lighter back in his pocket. "We need to make contact with Alpha. Dunn, Archer, go outside and scout the area. If it's clear, we're gonna head toward Alpha's jurisdiction until we can make radio contact."

The pain in my leg keeps screaming at me, and as Archer and Dunn head up the stairs and out of sight, I say, "I guess that means you guys will have to come back for me. I'm not going to be able to walk on this thing. I might be able to hop on one leg, but that's hardly discreet."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've had to drag your ass out," MacTavish adds with a laugh. Royce and I laugh, too, but I hardly think it helped to diffuse the pain for either of us. "What about you, Royce? You think you can walk?"

"I think I can hobble. A fractured ankle is nothing like a broken leg," Royce says.

Everything is quiet after that. I don't know if it's tension or fear or exhaustion, but there's something hanging in the air between us. I know I'm feeling at least two of the three, though at this point I'm not sure _which_ two.

"Flash," Royce mumbles after what feels like a lifetime. "What happened in there?"

"In where?" I ask. I don't look at him. My eyes are on the ceiling. I'm focusing as hard as I can on making the pain into an abstract.

"After that first explosion, you froze," Royce says. "What happened?"

Of course he'd want to know that. We're both beat up to hell, and if we had just gotten out a little sooner, things might have gone smoother. Or maybe there was an "I shit my pants" look on my face at the time that got him worried. Or maybe he was trying to fulfill the role of Meat and tell jokes to diffuse the tension. It doesn't really matter what the question means to him. The only thing that matters is how it's making me feel, which is to say pretty damn tense, exhausted, and afraid. I guess it's all three after all.

Before I really have time to feel bad about it, MacTavish says, "Drop it, Royce. Now's not the time." The authoritative tone in his voice doesn't sound like it usually does, like he's tenser than usual, which actually isn't so unusual what with the situation we're in. But he glances over at me as he says it, which does seem strange, as if he thinks my injuries have put me in a fragile state. Who knows? Maybe it's true.

Dunn and Archer come back about fifteen minutes later with Dunn through the door first. "All clear," he says. "No sign of hostiles." He looks tense, but at the same time in complete control. I guess he's technically seen more field action than the rest of us in the past few months. I remember what that feels like, and his ability to keep it together isn't necessarily a skill. It's more like an instinct.

"All right," MacTavish says. "We need to make our way through the city and get closer to Alpha's position. Dunn, you head up the front. Archer, take the rear. Royce will keep trying to contact Alpha and base on the way there. I'll help Flash."

I take a few quick drags of my cigarette before I put it out on the bottom of my shoe. Everyone takes a quick moment to prepare—we check our equipment, make sure our weapons are in proper working order, and then, as if our minds are all running on the same clock, we all look up and make eye contact.

Dunn heads warily halfway up the stairs with Royce right behind him continually speaking into the coms trying to make contact. MacTavish and Archer stand on either side of me to help me up, and then Archer leaves my weight to MacTavish once I'm on my feet—or foot. My leg screams even more with the pull of gravity going against it, but it hurts just as much any time I lean its weight on the floor. "Archer," I hiss at the first stab of pain, "next time bring some damn pain killers." Archer barely laughs at this—apparently he doesn't find it humorous.

For the first few minutes up the stairs, I'm worried that I'm choking the Captain to death with my arm around his shoulders. Despite his holding me up, I still flex my left arm around him to hold my own weight as much as possible. Up the first few steps, I hop on my left leg, but when the weight off of my right leg doesn't seem to be making any difference, I start putting a little weight on it, favoring speed over painlessness. "This is going to take forever," I hear myself whisper. "Are you sure you don't want to leave me behind and come back for me later?" Part of me means it as a joke and part of me is serious, though I'm not sure which part of me is more powerful.

"No one gets left behind," MacTavish says, and Archer echoes him from behind us.

It's dusk when we emerge from the house, and somehow this side of town looks emptier than it does during the day, or maybe it's just the chunks out of the sides of some of the buildings that look like causalities of RPGs. It's a heavy reminder of weapons dealers like Rojas and Kwame. I doubt the people out here would even have that kind of weaponry if it wasn't for those kinds of guys.

The only sound through the town besides the shuffling of our feet is the quiet voice of Royce repeating his call for a response into the coms over and over. Occasionally, exasperated sighs escape me when I lean too much weight on my leg. After several bouts of groans in a row, the Captain says, "Let us know if you need to stop."

"Wouldn't make a difference," I say through grinding teeth. "It's going to hurt either way. We may as well get out of here as soon as possible."

Between the stabs of pain and my eyes welling up with tears, I don't have the ability to do so much as observe the area around us, and I'm starting to believe more and more that they should have come back for me later. I'm the epitome of dead weight, no use whatsoever to anyone and, on top of that, halving the Captain's effectiveness and slowing the group's pace.

It isn't until it's completely dark that we reach a populated part of town. Most people are indoors, but a few people outside and some people from their windows stare as we pass by. That is one thing I'm not used to, but Dunn seems used to it. I guess part of "cleanup" is working around the civilians. Three years ago, civilians had been evacuated before I got to the field. "Captain," Archer says barely above a whisper, "Maybe one of the civilians has a phone."

"It's worth a shot," MacTavish says.

"What if they're harboring some of the hostiles we're here to stamp out?" Royce asks.

"Then we stamp 'em out," the Captain says, as if the answer to the question was obvious. "Dunn, ask this guy up ahead," he says as we approach a scared-looking man who looks like all he wants to do is go inside.

Dunn says a few slow words in Danti or Pashto or some Middle Eastern language that I don't recognize. When he gets to the word "phone," he says it in English, and I don't know if it's because they don't have a word for it or because he's not as fluent as he seems. The man nods quickly and nervously, and I can only take that as a good sign, but I don't really have the capacity to feel too happy about it. The pain is making me feverous, and it feels like it's still one hundred and thirty degrees.

The man steps inside his home and heads back out seconds later with the phone in his hand. I have a split second where I'm worried that it could be the trigger to a bomb, but the fear passes as he hands the phone over to Dunn. Dunn offers the phone over to MacTavish, but instead of taking it MacTavish relays a number to him. Dunn dials it and then hands the phone to MacTavish. He takes it slowly with his right hand, though he still hangs on to my arm around his shoulder with his left. Pain shoots up my leg as my weight hangs down more, but I swallow it.

MacTavish reaches someone on the other end and barks a clearance code through the phone. Seconds later, he says, "Hotel Six, Soap here." Soap? I've never heard anyone call him Soap before. Of course not, because everyone just calls him "Captain" over the coms. He's on an insecure line and has to refer to himself somehow, and he can't just say "MacTavish."

"We were ambushed by hostiles. There's been too much interference in the coms to reach you or Alpha. We have two WIA and need to pull out," he says. He pauses for a short moment and says, "Copy that, we'll make our way to the LZ… Copy. Soap out." MacTavish hangs up the phone and tosses it back to Dunn who hands it back to its owner and offers his thanks. A small sigh of relief escapes me as MacTavish loops his right arm back around me and takes some weight back off my leg.

"Alpha found and eliminated the target and is pulling out. We're heading to LZ two," MacTavish says once everyone's attention is on him. "Same idea, Dunn at point, Archer at the rear. Royce, don't worry about contacting Alpha. Stay frosty. Let's move," he says, and within seconds we're on the move to LZ two.

The LZ is back from our position a bit, and part of me regrets that they didn't just come back for me later. Another part of me is pissed off, and I don't think it's just the pain in my leg getting to me. It's the fact that we came all the way out here for nothing. My second mission with the one-four-one and it's a complete waste of time. "Yet another mission doesn't go as planned," I mutter as we near the LZ.

"In the one-four-one, missions never go as planned. Get used to it," MacTavish says with a slight laugh.

"This is gonna ruin my whole…next few months," I say back with a laugh that's muddled with grunts and groans of pain.

I know we're at the LZ when I hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. I can't help the sigh of relief that escapes me when we aren't met with any interference. Foley's team steps out of the chopper to give us cover as we make our way to the helicopter, and they come in behind us once we're all through the door. MacTavish helps me to a chair, and it's amazing how good it feels to sit just like after the last mission, only this time my leg is broken and I wasn't running around on rooftops. I wish that _had_ been the case instead of this…unpleasant alternative.

The ride back is colored with the low buzz of silent chatter. Maybe that's the sign of a hard mission, or maybe it's the sign that things did not go well, or maybe it's just the natural tendency toward tiredness that comes with nightfall, even if the time zone here is markedly different from what most of us in the one-four-one are used to—though I'm sure Foley's team is used to it since they've been out here for a while.

Everyone in Foley's team made it out without incident, and Scarecrow is pretty chummy with them, like it was the most natural thing in the world to go out on a mission with them. Archer is sitting across from me, being his usual silent self and chewing on a cig. Dunn and Foley are sitting next to each other with business-like expressions. The Captain is next to me looking pretty serious himself, and Royce is on the other side of him with his head leaned back against the wall and his eyes closed. I don't know if he's sleeping or just resting, but he seems as out of it as I feel. Heck, _I'd_ be sleeping if I wasn't in so much pain. I guess it's not enough pain, or I would just pass out from it. Eventually, I lean my head back too and close my eyes, focusing my thoughts on anything but the pain in my leg, and before I know it, I drift off, too.

* * *

><p>I'm the only one stuck in the sickbay in the sub on the way home—besides the physician, of course. Royce got away with crutches for his ankle, but I was confined to bed rest for my head injury more than anything else. I was tired at first, trying to catch sleep where I could, but I got tired of the physician waking me up every few hours to make sure I don't get a concussion, so now I'm stuck staring at the walls and imagining any way that mission could have gone better or at least been more interesting…in a good way.<p>

Archer comes to hang out with me for a bit and keep me company. We talk about pretty much anything besides the mission, like what the hell I'm going to do until my leg heals. "You think they'll try to discharge me?" I find myself muttering.

"Not a chance," Archers says with a laugh. "They might send you home for a while, though."

"I hope not," I say to him. "There's no one interesting there."

"No friends?" Archer asks.

"Only you guys," I say with a laugh. "No, I'll probably just spend weeks lying in bed until they decide to torture me with physical therapy. It's not the first time I've broken this leg." In fact, the break happened in almost exactly the same place as last time. Contrary to popular belief, that which doesn't kill you does not always make you stronger.

Seconds later, I see the Captain in the doorway looking more official than I think I've ever seen him since I've known him. "I need to speak to Sgt. Henderson in private," he says with a glance to the doctor and my bedside visitor.

"Uh, sure, Captain," Archer says with a twinge of nervousness. Apparently he's not used to seeing the Captain like this either, not to mention the fact that he hasn't addressed me that way since before I picked up my nickname. The physician steps out of the room in a businesslike fashion and Archer is right behind her.

"I just gave Shepherd my full report," MacTavish says, dropping his authoritative air. He still sounds serious, though, so whatever is going on isn't fun and games. The word "discharge" crosses my mind, and I suddenly regret that I didn't knock on wood when I said it. "I didn't tell him what happened right after that first bomb went off," he says.

What happened…? What was he—oh. Of course. "You mean," I mutter hesitantly, "when I—" I don't finish. I'm not sure what to call it. An episode? A freak out? A flashback? There are a few words that accurately describe it, but none of them really get down to the grain of what happened.

"Whatever you want to call it, you need to get it under control," MacTavish says. "If something like that happens again, you might not be the one to suffer the worst consequences."

"You didn't tell him," I repeat more to myself than to him, but he slightly shakes his head anyway. "Wait, but why didn't you?"

"Does the term 'medical discharge' mean anything to you?" MacTavish asks, and there's no humor behind it. He sounds irritated. "Even if he didn't take it that far, you can bet your ass he'd have you seeing a therapist daily for PTSD. Whatever you need to do to get past this, do it. I know you want to be here, and I want you on this squad, but if this continues to affect your performance—"

I don't hear the rest of what he says. I feel like the air has been stolen out of my lungs. PTSD. Just four little letters, but when you put them together and place the label on yourself, it feels like someone has just pulled the rug out from under your feet. It's like that moment when you found out that serious news you heard was someone just fucking with you. It's like when someone insults you by calling out that one flaw you know you have that you don't want to admit to. There's a mixture of anger and sadness, a mixture of my jaw working and tears welling up in my eyes.

"Flash?" I hear the Captain say, but I don't look up. His voice feels far away. Sound is coming to me in layers, and his voice is only second on the list. The thoughts in my head override everything, even the Captain's attempts to get my attention.

PTSD? Yes, PTSD. Of course PTSD. What else can you call it? I constantly have night mares, and that's when I'm _sane_. Apparently when I'm in a state of disaster, I have flashbacks that feel more real than reality. And what was his name? Right. Private West. What else could explain why I have trouble remembering his name all the time? But there's more to it than that. It's not just the squad that went in that building with me. It's not just Private West. It's Jackson. It's Vasquez. It's all the other people in my unit that died when the nuke went off, all these other human beings that I fought alongside, all of these other comrades that aren't here anymore. Stupid. Fucking stupid, Elaine. You've successfully managed to avoid your problems to such a degree that you didn't even realize they were still there.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes closed to keep tears from falling down my face. "PTSD," I whisper, as if trying the words out for the first time. "God. I don't know if I just didn't know it or if I've just been lying to myself this whole time." When I'm convinced no tears will come my way, I crack my eyes open and jump slightly at the sight of MacTavish sitting on the cot next to me with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together.

There's a long silence that only seems to get louder as it drags on. The silence is disrupted when MacTavish shifts slightly. His eyes are on the floor as he says, "I watched my whole squad die, Flash. I know how you feel."

I have to take a deep breath to lessen the lump in my throat before I speak. I blink a few times to keep the tears at bay and say, "I thought I was over it. It's been three years."

"It'll never go away," MacTavish says. "You have to learn to manage it. You have to use it to drive you forward."

"How?"

"Think of Meat and Royce, think of Archer. Think of the whole squad," MacTavish says as he looks up at me. "We're all a team. You count on all of us to watch your back, and we should be able to count on you to watch ours. That's what you think of. How if you fall apart, you won't be able to watch our backs."

I sigh and blink a few times again and shift my weight before I say, "It's not going to be easy."

"No one said it would be," he says, and somehow that helps. Somehow hearing the words takes some weight off my shoulders, puts some air back in my lungs. Somehow looking in his blue eyes and seeing the same pain I feel in myself makes the pain feel smaller, more manageable, like we've put the pain out in the open and split the burden between us. I'm reminded of the one thing I always felt when I thought of others, the one thing that, for some reason, I never saw fit to apply to myself. I feel human. I feel like I've been pushing forward all this time trying to act invincible, tricking myself into thinking that I was. I'm discovering again but for the first time that I'm not. And I'm feeling like the only appropriate response to this is to wrap my arms around him and thank him, like he's just given me the most important gift of all—he _has_.

But before I have the chance to argue against it, to tell myself that I'd be overstepping my bounds, to remind myself that I'm an idiot, I feel his lips on mine. I didn't even realize our faces were that close until now, but, like _that, _our lips are on each other, as if an indefinable gravity pulled us together, as if there were invisible strings pulling us close, as if the pain acted as an irrefutable lure to make us meet each other halfway.

I wanted to pull away. I wanted to stop and spout out excuses of protocol, of boundaries, of the indecorousness of the situation, _anything_ to get away from the embarrassment that I could let such a thing happen, that I could _do_ such a thing in the first place, but something stops me. Maybe it's the way I don't know who kissed who. Maybe it's the way we're both kissing back. Maybe it's just my own selfishness excited about fulfilling a fantasy and trying to get as much out of this moment as possible, but it doesn't matter. There's only one thing that _does_ matter to me, only one thing on my mind that trumps the shame, pain, fear, or any of the other emotions whirling around in my stomach.

It's perfect.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And there it is. I've been beating myself up trying to figure out how to get to this point for a while now… This is my first attempt at portraying any amount of romance, so hopefully this doesn't seem too hokey.

Cheers~

HK


	11. Chapter 9: Waking

"_It looks like you're ready to get back out there. How are you feeling… psychologically?"_

"_Better than I was. I still have to work through my…issues every morning, but at least it's out in the open now. I know therapy isn't really your thing, the mental kind, anyway, but I appreciate you talking to me about this." _

"_It wouldn't be the first time. I see most of my patients for long periods of time. You'd be surprised how many come to me with their deepest secrets. In all honesty, though, I'm surprised you didn't talk about this with me last time you were in here. It's been three years."_

"_I was being a stubborn ass. The first time I broke my leg was part of the problem. This second time woke me the hell up."_

* * *

><p>Two months for my leg to heal, and one month to get it back up to strength. That means one month of inane, wandering thoughts, one month of intensely irritating longing, and one month of trying to confront the monster under my pillow. Most of it wasn't as bad as it sounds, and most of it wasn't as good as it sounds. I spent one month of my thoughts meandering in confusion. I spent another month missing the action of my job, of all things. It wasn't until the third month when I started meeting with the physical therapist, the same one that had tended to me before, that I decided to try and work out my problems. That was a novelty. I had never really talked about my problems to anyone before. It's just like I told her; the first time I broke my leg was like the trigger for me bottling my emotions. The second time—well, the break of my leg wasn't exactly the trigger, but she didn't need to know that.<p>

I've never felt like I was away from home for a long time before. Back in the day, joining the military was exciting, like a chance to see different parts of the world—even if it wasn't under the best of circumstances. Because I didn't really have any family or close friends, leaving home didn't faze me. It wasn't really like home anyway. After getting passed around in foster care for a good portion of my childhood, I adopted the thinking that home was what I took with me. When I joined the Marines, I wasn't leaving anything valuable behind. It wasn't like leaving home. It was simply going somewhere else.

What else is the one-four-one if not family? Yes, base is definitely home, and after three months of not being there, approaching it again gives me a complex feeling. There's warmth in my chest, relief. I also have jitters, a testament to two different things: excitement, of course, after not having seen any of my squad mates for twelve weeks. There's also nervousness, though, apprehension at what things have changed and how I'll be received after such a length of time… among other things.

The base is quiet, though, and when I head to the barracks early that morning before the sun breaks free of the horizon, I'm the only one there. Most of the bunks are empty of everything except for the second-rate pillows lying on them. I only spot two that still have their belongings, and they belong to Archer and Worm. I vaguely wonder at the Captain's and Ghost's quarters, imagining whether or not they're also empty, but I can't tell behind the closed doors, and there's no way I'm willing to look. It wouldn't be appropriate in any case.

I take my time settling my things back around my bunk. I put my sheets on my bunk first—something about doing that adds to the elation of "returning home." I set the rest of my belongings at the end of my bed except for the book that I set under my pillow. Nothing sentimental. Nothing replaceable. I decided to throw that rule out the window. I diagnosed that problem even before talking out my issues. I couldn't just depersonalize everything because I was afraid of losing it. That's what got me into the mess in the first place. That's what allowed me to bottle everything away and pretend it didn't exist. I still have the nightmares rather frequently—I'm not over it yet and I probably never will be, but it's a start.

The click of a door and senseless laugher fills the room, and I look over toward the door. When two pairs of eyes look up at me, the laughter stops. It starts up again after only a few seconds as one of the men wraps me in a hug. "Flash! It's good to have you back," Archer says through the bromantic hug.

"It's good to be back, Archer," I mutter. A quick sniff and the sound of a little more laughter, and I find myself saying, "I'm guessing you just got back from having a drink."

"And a good one at that," Archer says as he pats me on the shoulder a few times.

"We're on hiatus right now," Worm starts, "so Archer thinks it's a good excuse to…party hard." No smile, as usual, even though he was laughing a few minutes ago. Maybe the laughing was a ruse for Archer's drunk-ass benefit, or maybe Worm just isn't comfortable around me. I still haven't quite figured this guy out.

Archer, though, is another story. It comes as no surprise to me when he collapses his body onto his bunk and kicks off his shoes. He sticks his arms behind his head in the stereotypical position of relaxation and actually manages to make it look comfortable somehow. If I had to give him a theme song in this moment, _Take It Easy_ by The Eagles would be a perfect fit. Unlike Meat, Archer finds his serious side during serious situations, but if there's nothing important going on he has no problem with kicking his feet up and unwinding.

"Is everyone else on leave?" I ask as Worm takes a seat on his bunk.

"Most everyone, yeah," Worm says. "The Captain is still here. Ghost too. I think they're in the mess right now. You should probably go check in."

A feeling of nervousness, excitement, and anguish all fills my belly at once. The last time I saw the Captain was the day we kissed in the sickbay. One short eternal kiss, but we didn't talk about it and haven't had the chance since. I want to talk about it. We _need_ to talk about it, really, but in front of Ghost is the last place the conversation needs to take place. Of course, I wonder if he already knows about it. He and the Captain are close friends. Would MacTavish share something like that with him? I certainly hope not. Things are already awkward enough as it is.

"Yeah, you're right. Take it easy, you two," I mutter as I make my way toward the door. Archer hums a response as if he's dozing off into sleep. Before I exit the room, I add, "Worm, don't let Archer get this smashed again. It's weird."

"Whatever," Worm says. "I doubt he'd listen to me," he adds, and I can't help the laugh that escapes me.

The sun has broken free of the horizon and is shedding enough light on the base to make it look like daytime now, and I can barely see that the light is on in the mess—it's not like I don't know for sure that they're there. Where else would they be? It's not like either of them to train in the rec room during odd hours of the morning, at least not that I've ever seen.

The portrait of Ghost and MacTavish sitting at a table smoking and playing cards hasn't changed. It's exactly what the two are doing as I enter the mess this time. I'd almost swear it's just another day, that I haven't been absent for three months at all, and the two barely notice me at all as I enter the mess. It isn't until I'm almost right next to them that one of them even sees me—so much for battle awareness.

"Flash," Ghost says with a surprised tone. He's not wearing his balaclava, and the expression on his face is anything but displeased which is a surprise. Out of everyone, he's the one I would have expected to be less than pleasantly surprised that I was back. Don't get me wrong—he doesn't look totally elated or anything, but he doesn't make me feel alienated. Even he makes me feel like I belong here.

"Flash," the Captain says quickly, looking up from his hand, which consists of a pair of twos, and various other cards that don't match suits or numbers—my first guess would be that he's losing. He looks just as on edge and nervous as I imagine I do when our eyes meet.

"Reporting for duty, Captain," I mutter with a nervous twinge. As a result, the phrase sounds almost mockingly false, like I caught the two of them in the act of something naughty or taboo.

After staring at me for a few seconds longer than necessary, MacTavish looks back at his cards and throws them down on the table. "Fold," he says, and Ghost laughs and scoops the cards into a messy pile. Something tells me even if I hadn't shown up, they would have reached this point of boredom eventually.

The Captains stands up and sets his cigar on the side of the ashtray that's sitting between them. "Shepherd didn't mention you'd be back today," MacTavish says.

"Eh… I'm a day early," I say innocently—I didn't have to report until tomorrow, but why wait? It's not like I had any prior commitments.

"Looks like the leg healed well," Ghost says as he gestured to my stance with his cigarette.

"They say third times a charm," I say, glancing down at my right leg—it's still a little refreshing to see it without the cast again. "I really don't want to find out what that means in this case, so let's not do that whole thing again."

Silence reigns then, and nothing could feel more awkward. It's like all three of us are sitting here trying to figure out what to say. Ghost decides to break the silence when he says, "I'll leave it to you two," and I cringe at the realization that MacTavish did say something to Ghost about what happened. Of course he did; they're best friends. I shouldn't have hoped otherwise.

It doesn't help to end the silence. When Ghost is out of the room, the two of us are still standing there fiddling idly—me picking at my nails and MacTavish reaching for the ashtray and taking drags at his cigar. I eventually decide to walk around the table and sit down in Ghost's spot. Sitting makes me feel a little less tense. Not much, though.

MacTavish sits across from me and takes a few more drags of his cigar before he says, "It's good you're back. …Archer hasn't known what to do with himself during his off time." I can't help but roll my eyes at that. Of course he doesn't. That explains a lot. "Believe it or not, Meat actually works harder during drills when you're here," MacTavish adds. "I guess he likes the competition."

This makes me giggle a little bit. Once the giggling subsides, I say, "You don't have to fish for topics. We really should talk about…you know." Thinking about it makes my cheeks hot. MacTavish's color doesn't change at all, but I can tell from the hurried way he knocks the ash from his cigar that he's nervous too.

"Right," MacTavish says. "Well," he continues, "there's protocol and SOP and professionalism and—"

"Whatever happened that day was," I mutter through his rambling, and he pauses to hear what I have to say. "I don't who initiated that whole…thing, but I'm sorry if I was out of line," I say.

"If anyone was out of line," MacTavish starts, but he doesn't finish. He worries at his finished cigar for a moment and then decides to flick it into the ashtray and not worry about it. He sighs before he adds, "Since when does Shepherd worry about protocol? This is definitely not standard operating procedure, but… I can't say I've ever been in this position before."

I stop biting my knuckles—I didn't even know I was until then—and say, "That makes two of us." I pick at my nails again for a few more seconds and then lean my hands on the table and say, "I don't really… I've never thought about the dividing line between women and men in the armed forces very much. Until now…of course. This is like waltzing into hostile territory with vague orders, no map, and no information on the enemy. Which I've never really had to do."

"Well," MacTavish says, "the Minas Gerais mission came close."

"Right," I mutter. I can't help but think back on the mission at its mention. "We got into deep shit, I disobeyed orders," I start, not even thinking on the fact that Ghost may have never mentioned that to MacTavish, "and then we got the hell out with a big 'mission failure' stamp. This would all go to hell."

"Could," MacTavish corrects. "We both also operated on instinct to get out of that mess, and it worked. One or both of us might have died otherwise," he explains, and my cheeks get a little hot again when I realize where he's going with this. "The smart thing to do would be to let sleeping dogs lie," he says, "but I'm partial to instinct. It's more reliable than planning."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"That depends on what you think I'm saying," MacTavish replies with a smile.

"It sounds to me like you're saying we should jump in blind and play it by ear," I say, trying to suppress a smile of my own.

"It's always worked before. You don't agree?"

"It's not that," I say, my cheeks getting hotter—if that's even possible. "I don't mind risking myself for the sake of others. You know that from my file."

"And from personal experience," MacTavish adds.

"Right," I say. "I would be selfish to risk someone else's job for my own reasons."

"You're not the one risking it," he replies as he leans toward the middle of the table.

I have nothing else to say to that. Everything in my head is telling me this is a bad idea, but every other part of me is telling me to go for it. If I considered my body a democracy, then the choice would be clear… But I guess nothing is ever that simple. But if anyone else in the squad finds out about it, Shepherd could have both our asses on a platter. Which reminds me…

"I have one question first," I say, and MacTavish leans forward a little more.

"Shoot," he says.

"Did you tell Ghost about this?"

He leans back again at this and glances away from me. That's a big yes. "I needed an…opinion on the situation," he says.

"And if he tells Shepherd?"

"He won't."

"But what if he does—"

"He _won't_," MacTavish repeats while leaning forward on the table again and staring me right in the eyes. "Ghost isn't a talker. He'll keep it to himself." As he says it, I know he's right, and I feel the nervous edge dissipate from my spine. With a quick glance toward the door, I lean across the table and do the one thing I've been aching to do since the first time it happened.

I plant one on him. I get a twinge of excitement when I feel the lurch in his body, as if he wasn't expecting it. The first time may have been his idea, but this time it's mine, and it feels strangely good knowing that I'm giving in to my own desires for a change. The kiss goes farther this time, lasts longer, as tongues part lips and meet halfway, lingering for and infinitesimal moment, and then withdraw before their desires are sated.

"That was…unexpected," MacTavish says afterwards, blinking widely.

I smile at him and say, "I was playing it by ear. I thought you liked that idea."

"More than I realized," he says as a smile crawls up the corners of his lips.

I can't help but laugh at this, and I realize with the shudders through my body that the tension I entered the room with has long since left. For the first time in a long time, I feel completely at ease, like things are finally going right for once, like the world is finally spinning the way it's supposed to. When the laughter stops, I smile and brush my fingers over one of his thumbs and say, "That was a thank you."

MacTavish takes my hand in his while giving me a quizzical look and says, "For what?"

"For waking me up."


	12. Chapter 10: SOP

**A/N: **Warning: this chapter contains fluff and shenanigans. ;)

Cheers~

HK

* * *

><p>Nightmares.<p>

When you're awake, you can rationalize. You can tell yourself why you shouldn't be afraid of something. You can tell yourself what steps to take to combat that fear. You can make yourself keep in control no matter how much you're tempted to turn and run screaming. We live through nightmares all the time thinking they're anything but. They aren't nightmares. They are real, and anything real can be fought. Anything real can be beaten as long as you have the strength to stand up to it.

When you're asleep, your brain abandons all rational thought. You can think to yourself over and over, "This isn't real. This is just a dream. You can make yourself wake up. It's not actually happening," but no matter how many times you tell yourself that, your mind rejects it. Your body reacts to the signals that are telling you to panic. You start to sweat. Sometimes you start to cry. Sometimes your heart is beating in your chest so loudly that, when you wake up, you swear the person lying beside you can hear it.

MacTavish hears it. Or he hears something. Maybe it's my uneven breathing. Maybe he can feel the cold sweat against my skin. Maybe he can tell when I wake up with a sharp jolt. Maybe, maybe, maybe. As if he's aware of my every move, his arm tightens around my waste as he sits up on his other arm and leans over my ear. "Elaine, are you okay?" he whispers, possibly in an attempt not to startle me, but more likely so as not to wake our unsuspecting neighbors who are passed out drunk outside the room on the other end of the barracks. There's no way they would hear us through the door anyway, but one can never be too careful.

He tightens his grasp a little more and repeats, "Elaine."

I have to take a deep breath before I speak. Not only do I feel a little short of breath, but I can feel myself trembling. After a controlled breath in and out, the quivers stop, and I say, "It was just a dream."

"Nightmares?" he says, and I want to hate him for even going on. I have to think back to my "therapy sessions" with my physical therapist, which was really more like a friend venting to another friend. Talking about it isn't easy, but I can't start bottling it up all over again.

"The Middle East," I say. "I've been trying to get over it, but I still dream about it sometimes."

MacTavish hums at this and leans back down on the bed. "If you want to talk about it," he starts, but he doesn't finish. I can't help but smile at this.

"Maybe another time," I mumble, "but thank you." I close my eyes and try to sleep again. It doesn't come, of course. The images are still fresh in my mind, and when I close my eyes I see all of the same things that haunt my sleep. I sigh, open my eyes to look at the black around me, and say, "I don't know why I can get it out of my head."

"Guilt?" he offers, and I find myself glad that he's still awake.

It doesn't take me long to think about this. "I guess that's part of it," I say. "I tried to save West, but I couldn't. No matter how many times I go back there, nothing changes."

"You—"

"I know," I interrupt. "At least I tried. I get that now. I'm sure he was probably grateful for the opportunity, no matter how slim it was and no matter the fact that it failed." I sigh and continue, "If I was the person I am today, I might have been able to help him. Then again, I might not have. I'm not sure there's anything I could have done to change what happened, and I have to accept that, I guess."

"But that's not the only thing that bothers you," MacTavish says.

"I guess not," I reply. I think back to the shadows over my face, the voices calling my name. "It was the last time I saw my squad," I explain. "I barely got out of there myself, but I did. It was a matter of pure luck. If the mission _had_ gone well, West and I would both be dead, along with everyone else who was there, so it wouldn't have changed anything. I got out of there alive. West got out as a body. Jackson and Vasquez and thirty-thousand men didn't get out at all. Half of them didn't even _have_ bodies to return to their families."

"Survivor guilt," MacTavish says softly. "I know the feeling."

I turn my head slightly as if going to look at him. "That's right," I whisper. "You said you lost your whole squad."

MacTavish turns to lie on his back as he speaks. I turn to lie on my back as well and watch his face in the darkness of the room. "I was in the SAS. It happened three years ago, same as you," he says. "Nothing as dramatic as a nuke goin' off, but just the same. We were on the run from the enemy in the Altay Mountains in Russia. They took out the bridge in front of us, and we halted to a crash. A rig exploded at our crash site, took some of us out. The rest of the squad got executed or died shortly after."

"Except for you," I say.

"Except for me," he confirms.

"Wait," I mutter. "Altay Mountains, Russia… The SAS… You were in the troop that took out Imran Zakhaev?"

"That's right," MacTavish says with a slight laugh.

There's a short silence before I look to the ceiling and say, "I hear Staff Sergeant Griggs went on that op."

"Griggs," MacTavish says. "Yeah. The Marine? You knew him?"

"He went into the Middle East with my unit. Shepherd pulled him out early for some mission. Guess it was yours," I say.

"He was a good soldier," MacTavish says, and silence fills the air again.

"It feels," I begin, "surprisingly good to talk about it. I guess there's something in knowing you're not alone."

"You're never alone, Elaine," he says, and he turns back on his side and slinks his arm around me.

I feel wicked slipping outside MacTavish's rear door for a smoke when morning comes, especially with Ghost standing right there doing the same thing right outside the rear door to his room. It makes me feel like I just one-nighted the CO, especially with the way he stares at me from the corner of his sunglasses without actually turning to face me, even though all that really happened was a good bout of cuddling and talking. It's a good thing almost everyone is on leave, or my absence from the barracks would bother me too.

MacTavish slips out the door after me and steps up beside me with his own cigar. When he sees Ghost, he walks over to him and starts chatting him up. Despite my mind's incessant urge to eavesdrop on their conversation, I use every ounce of my strength to block out their noise. The last thing I want to hear about is how this whole situation looks. It's almost worse if they aren't talking about it, because that would mean that Ghost is comfortable with it or that's it's not out of the ordinary enough or something. Playing it by ear shouldn't make you feel this guilty, should it?

"You hear that?" MacTavish voices over to me in the midst of their conversation. The smile on his face doesn't make me feel any better when he says, "Ghost says no shagging in the office," and laughs. Great. So they are talking about it. I don't know whether to feel relieved or ashamed. It makes it worse that I can't tell whether Ghost is smiling or frowning behind his balaclava.

Ghost notices the furrow that creases my brow and the flush that races to my cheeks and says, "Is this some purity thing? Or are we back in high school?"

"Ghost," MacTavish warns him, only I can tell he's suppressing a laugh.

The three of us start slowly walking toward each other and meet halfway. "You're teasing me," I say, my cheeks still rosy. "It's…almost endearing somehow."

"You'd probably do the same thing if I was in this situation," Ghost says with a small laugh.

"If it was you in this situation, I wouldn't have to be embarrassed in the first place," I mutter, and MacTavish laughs at this a little too loudly. "What happened to keeping this on the down low? I don't think standing out here joking about it is very discreet," I say, and that shuts him up. MacTavish clears his throat, finishes his cigar, and then heads back into his room with a low head, but a smile creeping up the corners of his lips.

"Everyone will figure it out eventually," Ghost says as he puts out his cig and pats me on the shoulder. The gesture almost makes me uncomfortable, but at the same time makes me feel a little better. Our relationship has seemed rocky at best, or smooth sailing if you consider the silences that passed between us for months after that first mission. Maybe I was affected by our conversation in the mess more than he was. Maybe he doesn't hold grudges. Maybe he just feels like he needs to buddy up to me since MacTavish likes me. When he pats me on the shoulder, I feel like the rift between wasn't as big as I thought. Maybe it was just a hop, step, and a jump. Maybe it was just a single line.

"That's the last thing I want to happen," I say after what feels like an eternity.

"You'll be disappointed. Trust me," Ghost says, and he turns and heads back into his room.

I'm left standing there, panicking silently with a heavy feeling in my gut. It sits in my stomach for most of the day: in the shower by myself with the warm water running over my skin, flowing uniquely around the scars at my shoulder and my waist, at the mess with Ghost and MacTavish while trying to fill my stomach with food that's starting to feel like "mother's cooking", in the rec room with the guys sweating and burning until the soreness is a satisfying pain through my muscles, right up until the moment MacTavish makes to leave the room, pats Archer and Worm on the shoulder, and swats me with his sweat covered towel.

"You and the Captain finally hook up?" Archer asks before we start another bout of sparing.

The heavy weight in my stomach explodes into a sizzling snake that makes its way through my veins up into my cheeks and my temples and sets them on fire. One day! It couldn't even last one day without someone noticing? Am I missing something here? Did MacTavish and I even touch each other at any point during the day? Were they spying on us this morning? Did they notice how I came into the barracks late (or early)? No, that happens a lot after I have nightmares. How in the _hell_ did Archer come to such a ridiculous (though true) conclusion? Did Ghost tell him? Certainly _MacTavish_ would never have said anything…

Archer laughs at my expression, which must look somewhere between a ripe tomato and a steaming teakettle, and says, "You and the Captain have been pussyfooting around each other for months. It's about time."

I could die right now. Really, it would be better if I just dropped dead. Right now.

Several tries at the word "I" slip out of my mouth before several more tries at the word "you", and I feel like a nervous schoolgirl being made fun of for having her cherry popped. I take one deep breath in an attempt to collect myself, though I imagine it sounds like a steam engine when it comes out, and I say, "I hate you so much right now."

"Oh, come on," Archers says to me as I take an uncontrolled swing at him. He dodges it easily and laughs. "Royce and Meat have been betting on how long it would take."

My head gets hot all over again and I have to sit down on the closest bench and hide my face in my hands. "You mean you guys have been talking about it? Jesus H. Christ!" I shout, loud enough for Worm to look over from where he's practicing against a sandbag.

"What's the matter? Can't handle the teasing?" he asks jovially as he sits down next to me and ruffles my hair jokingly.

"I hate you," I hear myself mumble through my fingers.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, everyone's known for a long time," Archer says, the laughter fading from his voice.

"Archer, how is _that_ supposed to make me feel better? God, I feel like I'm in high school all over again," I mutter.

"I've never had a sister," Archer mutters, and then he says, "This part of the conversation is confusing me a little bit…"

"Sister? That's what this has been about to you?" I ask. "You mean this doesn't bother you? It doesn't piss you off?"

Archer finally seems to get the other side of the situation as he says, "Flash, this is the one-four-one. Our idea SOP is spontaneous, not standard. Although, I wouldn't go gossiping to Shepherd about this…"

"So you're saying everyone knows," I say.

"Right."

"And no one has brought this to Shepherd."

"Right."

"And you guys don't care?"

"Right. Well, if you start snogging during drills, I might start to care," Archer says, and I can't help the laugh that squeaks out of me.

"What is up with you Brits and your weird intimacy terms?" I mutter absent-mindedly. Seriously. Shagging? Snogging? Where do they _get_ this stuff?

"Hey, hey, don't make this about me," Archer says, and I laugh again. "You racist prig," Archer mutters under his breath as he glances away. By the smile on his face, I can tell he's joking with me, and the only appropriate response is to push him off the bench.

"Hey, hey. Watch it," he says as his butt hits the ground. "Don't make me dislocate that shoulder again for ya, missy," Archer says as he gets to his feet and goes after me with a strangle hold. Another laugh escapes me once his arm is around is around my neck, and it quakes through my body so hard that I can't even pull myself free of him.

"'Spontaneous operating procedure'," I mutter once Archer releases me and we're both back on the bench. "I like the sound of it."

"The sound of it? Seems to me like you've already mastered it."


	13. Chapter 11: Family

_Listening is an attitude of the heart, a genuine desire to be with another which both attracts and heals. -J. Isham_

* * *

><p>Leave doesn't last long, and the rest of the team trails back onto base a few days later. MacTavish and I keep our distance from each other when everyone returns, but it isn't long before Meat ambushes me about the situation, asking whether it's true or not. It makes me feel a little better when I learn the only reason he's asking is to collect on his bet—apparently Royce was betting against it happening or on it happening later rather than sooner. At least, I feel better until I realize how much teasing is going to ensue. It never does; maybe they are too afraid of pissing off the Captain.<p>

Training starts up again once everyone gets back from leave, and it feels a little like going swimming after enduring a hot summer for weeks—I've been itching to get back into drills ever since I got the cast off my leg. It takes me a week or two to build myself back up to the stamina I was at before the break happened, but I get there eventually. I no longer lead with my right foot when I finish a stride, which is weird to get used to at first, but it becomes second nature after a while. After two breaks in the same area, there's a good chance my tibia will break again if I land too hard on it, so every jump and every hop ends with my left foot.

I also have my nightmares a little less frequently, even when I'm on my own bed by myself. Sleeping through the nights is not something I'm used to, and I'm not sure it ever will be after three years of having the same nightmare over and over. I wake up from one of my better nights feeling more refreshed than I've felt in a long time, not counting the nights when I was on painkillers for my legs. It's early, of course—I've been used to waking up before the sun for a long time. Everyone else is waking up at the same time, like all of our internal clocks are identical. As I'm tying the laces to my shoes, something hits me that makes me freeze.

It's been exactly a year.

A year ago today, I was in Kwame's facility getting the shit beaten out of me before the guys in the one-four-one came to extract me. Months of training, a couple of missions, a few months for recovery. Has it really been that long? The thought doesn't leave my mind as I head to the mess. One year. Two words, but it means something to me—I only knew Jackson and the rest of my squad for less than a few months before they died. These guys were still alive.

Breakfast is full of all the usual mischiefs: joking, teasing, telling over embellished stories—I sit next to MacTavish almost every day. No one seems to notice or care, which isn't something I would have expected before Archer let the truth slip. MacTavish and I still don't indulge in any intimate actions when anyone else is around besides the occasional smile, but it's nice not feeling like I'm busting my ass trying to keep it secret. Orders are the same as always, too, so drills go just as smoothly as ever.

"Shepherd is deploying us for another mission in the Middle East," MacTavish says once most of us have finished eating. My first instinct is to tighten my shoulders. I don't care how much I flush through my feelings and deal with my problems; I'm pretty sure I'll always hate the Middle East. I would be the happiest person in the world if I never had to go there again.

"What's the gig?" Meat asks, and I see Royce roll his eyes when the word "gig" slips out of Meat's mouth.

"Just more stamping out of the local militia," MacTavish says, and with a glance to me he adds, "No surprises this time. Clean and surgical."

"Is anything ever that simple?" I say, and I'm almost disgusted by the amount of lugubriousness in my voice—like a kid pouting about going grocery shopping with their parents, only not quite as trivial.

"I think he's going to be testing out some new squad members," MacTavish says. "He's giving us two loans," he explains while leaning forward onto his elbows. "One US Army Ranger SPC Matt Dunn and one SAS operative Sgt. Gary Sanderson."

"Dunn," I echo into the silence. "We've worked with him before. He was the one from Foley's unit, right?"

"That's the guy," MacTavish says.

"You think General Shepherd is going to recruit one of 'em," Ghost says, not really framing it in the form of a question.

"Who knows," MacTavish says, "but he doesn't usually have us work with other members unless he's at least thinking about it."

"How many of us does he need?" Archer asks. Something tells me he's just as eager to get back to fighting as I am.

"There's nothing fancy about this," MacTavish explains. "Basic shakedown. He's deploying all of us to clear 'em out. What's with that look, Flash? I thought you'd be excited." He rarely ever calls me Elaine, and when he does it's never around the others.

"For the action, maybe," I reply. "I hate the bloody Middle East."

"That makes two of us. It's too hot there," Meat says, and for once I'm thankful for his humor. Before, I always felt empty when it went through me, but now that I've got more of a grip on my problems, it feels good to joke around to get my mind off of things.

"Hey, it beats doing drills all the time," MacTavish says. "If there's one good thing about war, it's that it keeps us in business."

* * *

><p>I've never heard truer words. As much as I hate war, it's the only thing that keeps me going. Without it, I don't know where I'd be. Back in Denver picking my way through life living off of minimum wage jobs? I certainly wouldn't be here—with the only friends I have, with a guy I like, with family. I wouldn't be in riding in this truck on my way to a shakedown doing something that, for better or worse, I love doing. It's not that I like killing people or blowing shit up or anything like that—it's more like I'm good at it. I enjoy doing what I'm good at.<p>

MacTavish, Meat, Archer, Scarecrow, and Foley's boy, Dunn, are in the same truck as me, and—naturally—it's hot as hell. I'd almost rather go into combat naked just so I won't die from the heat. Being crammed into a truck with five hot and sweaty guys isn't helping either. It's stuffy as hell with the six of us, and it only gets worse as time goes by. My hand is especially sweaty where MacTavish is holding it between us. I find myself glancing at Dunn every few seconds to make sure he doesn't notice—there's no way he would anyway. We're sitting shoulder to shoulder, and our hands are pretty much hidden where they're squished between us.

MacTavish is leaning his right arm on his knee and talking to Dunn—I guess he wants to get to know him in case Shepherd does recruit him into the one-four-one. He seemed like a good soldier during our last mission, but we didn't see much action, so I'm not sure how I feel about it. It would feel strange to me now, adding a new member to family, but I suppose that's what the rest of the guys went through when I joined up.

"I'm looking forward to the action with you guys," Dunn says. "There's just somethin' about fighting alongside the best of the best that you just can't beat. Never a dull moment."

"I'm not sure I would call our last misadventure exciting," Archer says with a laugh.

"Hey, it's not every day you get to escape from a collapsing building," Dunn says and he also laughs.

I laugh too. Sometimes it feels like it, I think as I stare down toward my feet, though the glances I get in response tell me that I said it aloud. MacTavish gives me a glancing smirk and squeezes my hand as Dunn says with a smile, "Hey, I know what you mean."

"How long have you been in Foley's unit?" MacTavish asks.

"A few years now, I guess," Dunn says. "Most of our ops have been like this one. I've seen my share of action, but probably not as much as any of you guys."

"My money is on Shepherd trying to recruit you," MacTavish says ponderously.

"I kinda figured as much," Dunn says as he rubs the back of his neck.

"You sound less than thrilled," I say. I can't understand why. When Shepherd offered me the position, I was rather excited about the idea. It turned out well enough. Right. Understatement of the century.

"Maybe," Dunn says. "I know you guys are like the Prima Donna squad and everything, but… Foley and them…"

"Enemy contact," we hear through the coms. "Get ready, get ready."

Seconds later, the truck lurches to a stop and Meat hops out the back first. My hand lingers in MacTavish's for a second as we stand up, and then they slip apart as we head out the door after Archer, Dunn, and Scarecrow. We follow others in the squad behind cover, and then move past them to go around. There's something strangely familiar about it all, maybe because it reminds me of four years ago. It's straightforward combat instead of covert battle, and it's in a wide open area. Even though it's been four years, my body still responds like it's second nature. It's not like how it was with the mission in Minas Gerais how I had to think about every move I made.

"Tangos spotted two 'o'clock on the second and third floors," MacTavish shouts from his cover. Like clockwork, the rest of the team pivots out of cover and starts firing on the enemy. I focus my fire on the ones on the rooftop of the building in question. One of the targets has an RPG and fires the artillery seconds after he takes a shot from one of the other guys. The sound of the small rocket sailing through the air is like a familiar albeit unwelcome tune tickling my ear, and the explosion that resounds as it hits one of the buildings behind us makes me jump slightly, but I keep control.

"Move up," MacTavish says, and I instinctively move toward the building, keeping my body low to the ground. Once we're all stationed around the door, MacTavish heads in first with a hand up. Seconds later he says, "Clear," and beckons us forward with that same hand.

Dunn and Meat go to check the side rooms and come back with a clean report. We all head to the stairs, and MacTavish says, "Dunn, flashbang."

"Flashbang out," Dunn says instantaneously, and he tosses the small tube up the stairs and out of sight. The small burst, though distant, still leaves the slightest ringing in my ear. Meat heads up the stairs first with Dunn right behind him, and the rest of us follow. Before emerging from the steps, I hear two bursts of shots fired and Dunn say, "Clear."

The second floor is one hallway with rooms off to the sides and a staircase on the other side of the floor. "Check the rooms," MacTavish reminds us, and Dunn and Meat take the lead, Dunn covering the right and Meat covering the left.

I hear one burst of shots from Meat before he says, "Tango down." The other rooms are empty and Dunn and Meat continue forward to the staircase. Once we're all set up behind them, Meat throws a stun grenade as he says, "Flashbang out." The sound of the tube bouncing off the wall and onto the ground is followed by another faint piercing, and Meat and Dunn move up the stairs again. I move up right behind them with MacTavish at my left and Archer at my back. When I hit the third floor, I fire on a few stunned tangos that aren't already taken care of.

The third floor looks similar to the second, only there's a door to the balcony on the opposite side of the hallways, and there are probably doors to it within the other rooms too. "Archer, Flash, take the right," MacTavish says. "Scarecrow and I will take the left. Dunn, Meat, straight ahead, check the rooms and clear out to the balcony."

"Roger," I say, and I take the lead with Archer following behind me. At the first door on the right side, I glance in and clear left, then pivot in and check right. There's a closed door on the right wall of the room and a door to the balcony on the wall directly across from us. I make my way toward the closed door while Archer pokes out of the outer door and checks outside. I stand on the hinged side of the door and reach for the handle. I push it open slightly with my gun trained into the room. I can see a toilet from where I'm bowed forward. I lean in and push the door the rest of the way, then move around it quickly and check behind the curtain of the shower to find nothing.

"Room clear," I say to Archer, and I head to his position. He heads fully out of the balcony then with me behind him this time.

"Moving to the second right," Archer says, and I hear Dunn confirm the same in reply. We move forward and check the windows, clear the room, move on to the next, and do this until we get to the end of the balcony where we rendezvous with the whole team.

"Building clear," MacTavish says, and orders come through to meet back at the trucks.

The whole mission is a strange vertigo as we rinse and repeat these steps, clearing areas and buildings until the local militia is wiped out. Compared to the ops I've been on with the one-four-one since I joined, this one feels incredibly easy. There are a few close calls, mostly enemies surprising one of us from around the corner. I pull Archers ass out of the fire once, and he does the same for me once as well, but we keep moving like it never happened. MacTavish pulls me away from a grenade that I don't notice, and Scarecrow pulls MacTavish out of the path of an RPG, and there's never a thank you afterwards, like it's the most natural thing in the world for us to be there for each other. It's like I was never gone.

I feel good when it's over—it's the first time I think I've been able to say that. Ever. We take out the local militia with no casualties and only minor injuries among the squad. Not only that, but I feel a sense of peace, like this is where I'm supposed to be. It even feels like Dunn belongs there with us. Almost.

He doesn't look as comfortable as I do, sitting across from me on the way back to forward base. He doesn't join in the conversation with Meat, Archer, and Scarecrow who are cheerily talking out the day's action with each other nor does he seem to notice the way I'm leaning into MacTavish beside me. He's distant, pensive, like he's somewhere else completely.

"Something on your mind, Dunn?" I ask, and the sound of my voice pulls him from his stupor.

"I was just thinking," Dunn says, "about the one-four-one and everything."

"Wondering about joining?" Archer asks.

"I don't know, dude," Dunn says, and the "dude" makes me feel a little nostalgic. Not enough Americans in the one-four-one, I guess. The familiar slang tickles my ear and makes me feel like I'm back in the Marines for an ephemeral moment. "It'd be a cool opportunity, that's for sure, but…"

"Not up for it, Dunn?" Meat says jokingly while giving Dunn a friendly elbowing. Dunn laughs slightly in response, though it's hardly heartfelt.

"I've been with Foley's unit for a few years now," Dunn says. "I know all the guys. We've gone on lots o' missions together. I mean…"

"They're like family," I say.

"Yeah! Exactly," Dunn says. "Like my brothers from another mother," he says, and I laugh a little—another phrase I haven't heard in what feels like forever.

"Then don't do it," I say. "You should stick with your squad."

"Yeah," Dunn mutters. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking too."

"In that case," MacTavish says with an outstretched hand, "it was a pleasure workin' with ya, Dunn."

"Likewise," he says as he reaches across the cabin to shake MacTavish's hand. "Maybe it's a job for that other guy."

A part of me feels a little sad watching Dunn go—rather Dunn watching us go—like it's the last time I'm going to see him. It might be, for all I know, but why does it bother me so much? Maybe it's just the sense of nostalgia of being around someone else who's from the states. I haven't had much of that in the one-four-one, unless you count Worm and Toad, both of whom barely speak to me, and General Shepherd, the only guy I have ever professed to hate—well, the only one living anyway. Al-Asad and Zakhaev can both be counted responsible for the death of my old unit, but they're long gone now and good riddance.

When we get back home, most of the guys head for the mess. A few go straight to the barracks, probably looking forward to passing out—the mission may have gone as planned, but that doesn't mean it was easy work. I'm just as tired as they are, but I head to the gun room instead. Target practice is usually something we only do in our free time, so the building is empty most of the time. It's quiet, dark, and no one is there to bother me. It's the only place I've been able to go where no one looks for me, the only place where I can go to sort out my emotions.

I take a seat on one of the empty tables that we sometimes use to practice gun assembly—though that happens rarely. The only light on in the building is the one in the observation room, so I can't see across the hangar. The world around me is only made up of dark, immovable shapes. The silence is almost loud here, and I find comfort in it. There's nothing moving around me to make me uneasy. I can hear anything that _does_ move clearly, so I feel safe. It's not like how it was four years ago in the Middle East. It's not like how it was _today_ in the Middle East—guns firing everywhere, explosions going off overhead, debris tickling my periphs, voices shouting to be heard amongst the salvo. I feel like I have control in here.

"Didn't think I'd find you in here," a voice sounds from across the room. I jump when I hear it, but I recognize the voice immediately.

"MacTavish," I say. "You caught me off guard."

"I keep tellin' you to call me John," he says with a laugh.

"No way. I start calling you John, I might get used to it and slip up somewhere," I reply as I step off the table and stretch my arms. Seconds later, he's close enough for me to see him. "How did you know I was in here, anyway?"

"Lucky guess?" he says with a laugh. "This base isn't exactly a maze, you know. You weren't in the mess and you weren't in the barracks. I told you to stop training in the rec room right after a mission, so I figured you wouldn't be in there." We both laugh a little at this, and then he takes one step forward and says, "You did good today."

"Too bad things can't go that well all the time."

He laughs again and says, "No, I mean _you_ did good today. I know the Middle East isn't exactly your favorite place." He starts rubbing the back of his neck and says, "For a while there I thought I was gonna have to worry about you getting shellshock."

"You don't have to worry about me, MacTavish," I say.

"I worry about everyone."

"I noticed," I mutter with a smile. I'm not sure if he sees it in the dim light. Then I add, "That's what makes you a good captain, you know. You treat everyone like… well… Like family." I turn back around and lean back against the table. He takes a few steps toward me and rests one arm on his belt. "You know, it's been a year since you pulled me out of Kwame's facility."

"Yeah," he says. "Literally." He leans against the table next to me.

"It… It feels like home here," I tell him. "That must sound weird to say, but it's true. I've never really felt at home anywhere until I came here. It's an odd feeling. To tell you the truth, I don't know whether to laugh or cry." He doesn't say anything at that, just looks at me with a straight face. I laugh a bit—I don't know why. Maybe it's from embarrassment, or maybe it just naturally comes out of my system. "You always listen to people, and you don't judge them. It's what I like about you, you know."

"Oh, really," he says, and he nudges me with his elbow. "Just the one thing?"

I smirk at this. "Besides the fact that you don't get mad when I let you win in a fistfight, yeah," I mutter.

We both laugh, and before we're finished, he grabs my arm and pulls it behind my back, pushes me forward, and hooks his other arm around my neck. "Who's letting who win?" he says with a laugh.

Between bursts of laughter, I stammer, "MacTavish. Stop… Let me go…" A smile creeps up my lips when an idea hits me, and it's a good thing he can't see my expression or it would give it away. "Fuck," I mutter, somehow managing to hold laughter in. "I think my shoulder is dislocated again."

"Oh, come on," MacTavish says, "I didn't pull your arm that hard." Even as he complains, he takes the bait and lets me go, and I turn around and elbow him in the head while using the momentum to pull his arm around his back. I sweep one of his legs out from under him with one leg and then hook around it with my other leg to keep him from falling over completely. But instead of pausing there, he drops to his knee on his other leg and falls forward, pulling me down with him, and we both topple to the ground. He then loops one arm around my shoulders, rolls me onto my stomach, and leans a little of his weight on me.

"You lose," he whispers into my ear, and we both erupt into soft fits of laughter. We both roll onto our backs and stare up at the black ceiling above us.

"I think I belong here," I say, breaking the long silence.

"It's been a year. You've only now figured that out?" MacTavish mutters, looking to me jokingly with a contorted expression.

"No," I say after a small laugh. "It just feels good to say it out loud."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **We're drawing steadily closer to the events of Modern Warfare 2!

I still didn't include as much of Dunn as I wanted to, but with such a huge cast of characters, the story will run away from if I try to focus on everyone with the attention I've been giving the main characters. I think I'm satisfied with how I brought him back in, and I hope you are too.

Best~

HK


	14. Chapter 12: The Suck

Sergeant Gary Sanderson.

The first time I saw him, he was stepping into a truck with some of my squad mates. I didn't know him from Adam, and as Ghost tells MacTavish about the new recruit, I can't even picture his face. I do remember that he's an SAS operative. It's hard to forget that. I wonder if MacTavish or Ghost ever worked with him when they were in the SAS.

"He's well rounded," Ghost says. "He knows how to handle explosives, firefights, and stealth. And he gets the job done."

"I guess it's a good thing Shepherd's bringing him to us, then," MacTavish says. "Sounds like he'll fit right in." He takes a drag from his cigar and sets it back down on the table. It's early in the morning, but not too early. A few of the others have already passed through and probably made their way to the rec room. Shepherd met with MacTavish earlier in the morning, so regular drills were cancelled.

"When is he joining us?" I ask. It's still a little hard to get my head around someone new joining the family. At least I knew Dunn. This Sanders guy or whatever could be anyone.

"That's the other news," MacTavish mutters as he finishes off his cigar. "We're being briefed at 1100 hours."

Ghost nods, and I say, "Another mission, huh? So soon?"

"Don't tell me you'd rather run more drills," MacTavish says.

"Action has been slow lately," I say. "I just didn't expect that we'd have another mission so soon after finishing the last one. Sounds like something's brewing."

"You can say that again," MacTavish says. I look him deep in the eyes for a moment, but he doesn't give in. "You'll find out at the briefing, Flash. It's privileged information. You'll know what Shepherd wants you to know."

I laugh dejectedly and say, "You know how much I love surprises."

"You and me both," Ghost mutters, and he stands and heads out, maybe to notify everyone about the briefing.

"So, I assume Sanders is…"

"Sanderson," MacTavish corrects.

"Whatever," I mumbled. "I assume he's coming with us on this mission?"

"That's the plan," MacTavish says as he stands with a grunt. "That's not all. You two will be teamed up."

"What?" I say before I even register the word. "Wait, just us two?"

"This is another covert mission, but more so than the Minas Gerais op," MacTavish says. "Shepherd is only sending in a handful of us. You're one of the only ones besides me and Ghost that have the experience for this mission."

"It's not like I've been on that many black ops, MacTavish," I tell him. "Besides the Kwame one and the Minas Gerais one, I've only really been on a few, and I was always at the bottom of the ladder with those."

"You've been through the training," MacTavish says. "And Shepherd wouldn't have sent you on the Kwame op if he didn't think you could handle it."

"Let me get this straight," I say, stepping in front of his path when he turns to leave. "It's just going to be the four of us, and you're pairing the two FNGs together?"

MacTavish laughs at this and bumps me on the shoulder. "You're not an FNG anymore, Flash," he says.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this? MacTavish gives me a stare and a familiar knowing smile that he gives me a lot when he teases me. "Oh," I mutter. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

He leans into me and touches his lips to mine, briefly, but I still worry somewhere in the back of my mind that someone is watching us. He leans his forehead against mine as he whispers, "That's one of the things I like about you, Sergeant." With a laugh, he adds, "Just don't go pulling that around the enemy." He steps back from me and gives me that knowing smile again and says, "It'll be fine, Elaine, so long as everyone does their part." I open my mouth to speak, but he speaks before I can. "I know, I know," he says. "'Is anything ever that easy'," he quotes, and a defeated blush creeps into my cheeks.

"I hate it when you do that, you know," I say to him as I try to hold back a smile.

"Do what?" asks MacTavish, halfway out the door.

"Deflect all of my worries," I say. "You're putting me at the risk of overconfidence, Captain."

His voice trails off as he walks out the door and says, "Just remember the difference between overconfidence and recklessness."

* * *

><p>The thing about overconfidence and recklessness is that you never know the difference between the two until after you employ them.<p>

I was overconfident when I thought I could save MacTavish from that situation back in Minas Gerais and ended up being right and saving his ass after all. I was reckless when I thought I could get to the briefing on the sub without thinking about how much I hate General Shepherd and then ended up grinding my teeth the moment I saw him. If it pays off in the end, it's overconfidence. If it doesn't, it's recklessness. If you ask me, that's a fine line to walk.

"MacTavish," Shepherd say. There's another guy in the room. The three of us line up next to him, and I look him over out of the corner of my eye. He looks a little uncomfortable standing there or something. I look away when he glances back over at us. "Riley. Henderson. Sanderson. Good work in Afghanistan. I hope you three are ready for more action. MacTavish, would you like to do the honors?"

MacTavish steps forward and turns to face me and Ghost. "Right. We've caught wind of Alejandro Rojas," he says, and the minute the name hits my ears, I can feel my blood pump faster.

"He's back on the grid?" Ghost mutters, voicing my thoughts.

"Our information indicates he's in Rio," Shepherd says.

"Rio de Janeiro. As in Brazil," I mutter, as if that isn't common knowledge. "You mean he's still there? I figured he'd clear out as long as he knew we had an ear out for him."

"We don't know if he's been in Rio this entire time or not," MacTavish says, "But our sources indicate he'll be there tomorrow."

"What sources are these?" I ask. "The last time we went after this guy, we were chasing a fishy transmission that gave us little information."

"The information is good," Shepherd says. "We intercepted one of his runners. He's going to Rio to oversee some shipments."

"Those must be some big fish if he's overseeing the shipment in person," Ghost says. "Any possibility there's someone else behind Rojas?"

"That's what we're thinking," Shepherd says. "We need to find out what that shipment is and where it's going while keeping tabs on Rojas."

"That's where we come in," MacTavish says. "We'll be splitting into two teams." He walks around us along with Shepherd and to the table behind us. Ghost, Sanderson, and I all turn and look to the map on the table.

"Great," Ghost mutters. "More favelas." I have to resist the urge to laugh at this since I was thinking the exact same thing.

"According to the runner, the shipment is being put together here," MacTavish says as he points at the map. His finger falls over a spot that looks like a warehouse district. Typical. Where else would he be storing these shipments? In the damn trees? "They won't send the shipments out until Rojas gives the okay. When he does, they'll be bringing the shipment to the marina here," he says as his finger moves across the map, "and moving the crates onto a cargo boat. Team Bravo Two will be in charge of chasing down the cargo and acquiring the details of the shipment as well as the destination then blow the cargo with C4. In the meantime, team Bravo One will tail Rojas. Flash, Sanderson, you're on Bravo Two."

"If our runner was right," Shepherd continues, "then Rojas practically has a whole army working under him. You'll need to keep a low profile, unless you want his whole militia between you and the target."

"If Rojas is smart," I say, "he's going to have that vessel locked down. It won't be easy getting in and out without attracting attention."

"No, it won't," MacTavish says. "We've designated two exfil points for team Bravo Two. The first is at the docks east of the target," he says as he points to a spot on the map a few kilometers east of the docks where the shipment is slated to go. "The second is north of the docks at the top of this hill."

"It's not going to be easy getting to either of those places," Sanderson says. It's the first time I've heard him speak. He sounds a little older than he looks.

"He's right," Ghost says. "If Bravo Two is compromised, it's gonna get bloody. We should designate a tertiary exfil."

"What are ya thinking, Ghost?" MacTavish asks.

"The quickest way for Bravo Two to get out would be on the water," Ghost says. "There'll be plenty of motorboats around. Rojas might even have a few of his own. Grab one, head out to open water, and pull out."

"Could be dangerous," MacTavish mumbles. "Alright, exfil three, then. Flash," he says as he looks to me, "it'll be your call which one to use. If you can't make it to exfil one or two, go with Ghost's plan."

"Roger," I say, trying my best to sound confident.

"Ghost, you and I are Bravo One," MacTavish explains. "We need to shadow Rojas, find out where he's headed. If he takes us to his base, we need to infiltrate and gather whatever information we can. We need to keep Hotel Bravo posted on our location for pick-up."

"Once our objective is complete, do you want us to drop in for back-up?" I ask.

"As long as we stay concealed, it'll be too risky to drop in reinforcements," MacTavish says. "If we're compromised, you'll need to clear the way for an exfil point."

"Got it," I say, and Sanderson hums in agreement.

"The shipment is slated to happen in 0300 hours," Shepherd says. "Your infil point is here," he says while pointing at the map, "near a junkyard west of the warehouses. You'll be inserting together in 0200 hours for observation. There will be two vehicles ready for you near the main road. Everyone know what to do from there?" No one says anything. "Good. Let's get this done. Dismissed."

Everyone leaves the room looking a little taller than usual—it's a strange phenomenon that seems to happen a lot after briefings, and the tougher the mission the taller everyone looks. I probably look the same way because I can definitely say this is the toughest mission I've had since officially joining the one-four-one. The Jengo Kwame assassination was certainly tough, but—aside from me not having been in the one-four-one yet—there's a huge difference between getting the crap beaten out of you and people shooting to kill. It feels like the last year until now was all preparation for this.

"You ready for this, Sanderson?" MacTavish asks once we're all down the hall from Shepherd's quarters; a year ago, it was me he was asking this question.

"We'll be in radio contact," he says with a serious expression. "Otherwise, whatever Flash tells you to do, you do. Got it?"

"Roger," Sanderson says.

"Remember: 0200 hours. Get geared up, do whatever you need to do to prepare," he says, and the four of us break.

Before I step away from him, MacTavish grabs my shoulder and says, "Be careful, Flash."

"Don't worry about me, Captain," I say with a smile. "Who was the one who saved your ass in Minas Gerais?"

He chuckles and says, "Alright, alright. Don't get cocky. 0200 hours."

"0200 hours."

* * *

><p>By the time we get ourselves camped near the warehouse, my blood feels like it's going to pump right out of my throat. Four people for a mission like this—it almost seems insane, but I guess these are the kinds of ops that they keep the one-four-one around for. When you don't want to start an all-scale war, when you don't want a small-scale war with civilian casualties, when you don't have anyone else who can get the job done, you call the one-four-one. That's what I keep telling myself. We're hardly invincible, though. One slip up, and we'll be sleeping in four graves tonight—if we're even lucky enough to get our bodies picked up.<p>

Roach looks about as nervous as I felt on the Minas Gerais mission. I expected myself to be just as nervous, but something is keeping me calm. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure it's the mantra I keep repeating to myself over and over: if I fuck this up, my squad mates might be the ones to pay for it. I know that if I keep it together, everything should go as planned. That's what we always say, anyway. I'm trying to believe it this time.

"We've got movement," MacTavish says from his spot by the window. We're hiding in an old bus that's piled into a junk stack near the warehouses. It gives us a perfect view of the warehouse entrance and a path with cover out to the road.

"Two tangos just came through the outer doors," says MacTavish.

"Three trucks incoming," Ghost says from his spot by a different window.

"Do you have a visual on Rojas?" MacTavish asks.

"Negative," Ghost replies. A few seconds pass as the trucks pull up in front of the warehouse. Ghost relocates near MacTavish to get a view.

"I have a visual on the trucks," MacTavish says. "They're stepping out of the vehicles." A few seconds pass. "I don't see Rojas. No one else in the trucks."

"Think Rojas decided not to come?" Sanderson says.

"Or he never intended to in the first place," I say.

"That man," MacTavish says, "the one in the white shirt. Looks like he's in charge here."

"I see him," Ghost confirms.

"Hotel Bravo," MacTavish says into the coms. "This is Bravo One. We've got a visual on the target. It's not Rojas. I repeat, it is _not_ Rojas. What are your orders?"

I hear Shepherd's voice on the other end of the coms reply. "This is the designated time as indicated by the source," he says. "Track the target when he leaves. He may lead us to Rojas."

"Copy that, Hotel Bravo," MacTavish says.

"Tangos moving into the warehouse," Ghost mutters. "Now we wait."

The tension makes me want a cigarette. Waiting. I hate the waiting part. Sanderson doesn't seem to like it any more than I do. He checks his gun obsessively, like it might just decide to stop working randomly while we're standing here.

Time passes just as ephemerally as ever. Who knows how much time goes by? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? It feels like a lifetime before MacTavish says, "The target is returning to the vehicle. That's our cue, Ghost." He stands and gives me and Sanderson pats on the shoulders before he says, "See ya on the far side." The two of them rush out of the bus to make it to their vehicle before their man hits the main road.

"Bravo One, target is on the move," I say when I see the target and his lackeys get into the truck. "I repeat, target is on the move. Two trucks inbound to your position. Are you mobile?"

"Copy that, Bravo Two," MacTavish says. "We're Oscar Mike. We have the target in our sights. In pursuit."

I look to the FNG and say, "You ready for this Sanders?"

"It's Sander… Ah, ready," he says.

When I look back to the warehouse, four enemy troops are getting into the third truck. They don't start the truck immediately when they get in. Seconds later, two other vehicles pull out of the warehouse, big trucks that are almost UPS-styled. "Let's move," I say to Sanderson.

The two of us bolt out the door and cut across the junkyard to beat the trucks to the main road. Once we get there, we hop into the truck that's waiting for us, me in the driver seat and Sanderson in the passenger seat. I start the car quickly and then put my eyes back on the road where the trucks are pulling onto the main street. "Bravo One, the cargo is Oscar Mike. In pursuit," I say into the coms.

"Copy that," says MacTavish. "Keep a low profile."

"Roger," I say, and then I pull the truck onto the street and begin following the vehicles down the road. They're easy to spot amongst the other cars on the roads, which makes it harder to follow them without being noticed. I hang back quite a bit, using their visibility to my advantage. But this is the easy part.

The hard part is following them onto the docks without being noticed, and, beyond that, getting on and off the vessel without getting shot to pieces. Oh, and of course there's the whole getting out once we're _probably_ compromised part. There's no way that's going to be easy. Maybe I shouldn't have started my day off hoping it would be easy…

Their trucks stop near the docks and the soldiers get out. I stop farther back, not wanting to attract attention. "Bloody hell," Sanderson says from beside me. He took the words right out of my mouth. There are patrols of men all over the docks in this area, and a group of men moving to transport the cargo into the vessel.

"That's why we're infiltrating the vessel and not storming the docks," I say to him while pulling a cigarette from my pack and sticking it in my mouth. I chew on it a little, but I don't light it. Now's the time for the adrenaline to start kicking in. "We need to move to a better position," I say as I pull the truck back onto the nearby street. I follow the road further down the docks until I spot the rest of the militia. I pull off the road and park it, but leave the engine running. "We need to get to that pier without attracting attention," I say as I scan the harbor.

"We can use that cargo for cover," Sanderson says as he points to a collection of cargo near the pier where our target is. "It won't get us all the way, though."

"It gets us close to the water," I say to him. "I hope you know how to swim, Sanderson. Bravo One, we're at the docks. The cargo's being moved onto the transport. We're moving in. Going silent."

"Copy that, Bravo Two," MacTavish says. "Good luck, and stay frosty."

"Follow my lead," I say before I open the truck door and hop out. I head straight for the cargo on the harbor, and Sanderson is right on my tail. We move through the cargo like clockwork until we get close to the main walkway. There are men lackadaisically patrolling the area in twos and no civilians on this part of the dock whatsoever. I don't know if Rojas' militia just scared them away or if this part of the docks is private. Either way, it works out well. We won't have to worry about civilian casualties.

"Steady," I whisper to Sanderson. "On my go, head across the pathway and slip in. The water slapping against the marina will cover the sound, but only if you keep it quiet." I see him nod out of my peripherals. After the two-man patrol walks by us, a lift my hand and give Sanderson a small wave. He shuffles across the docks with quiet steps and slips over the edge of the marina and into the water as smooth as can be, and the splash isn't noticeable amongst the sounds of the water. When the patrol doubles back, I follow Sanderson's steps and slip into the water with just as little sound.

"So far, so good," I mutter when my head resurfaces. It takes me a second to get my bearings—it's been awhile since I've been swimming with gear on, and then only during training. Luckily, with the weight pulling down, it's easy to keep our heads low to the surface. "Hug the wall and move toward the transport," I whisper to him, and he takes the lead.

When we get to the boat, we slip between it and the dockside underneath the walkway spanning between the two. I peek over the edge of the dock to see them moving the last of the cargo onto the ship. Once the militia have the crates in hand, the drivers slip back into their trucks and pull away. The transporters move in our direction with the crates. When the transporters move onto the vessel, two men take stance at the docks right above our heads. They're the only ones left on this neck of the pier with the transporters on the ship. I look over at the patrols back on the harbor. There's a group of them still gathered where the trucks pulled in, and besides that the only ones within our line of sight are the men patrolling the dockside where we slipped into the water but they are moving away from us slowly.

I glance to Sanderson while pulling out my knife and pointing up at the two men above us. He nods and pulls out his knife as well. I hold the palm side of my hand up to him and look over to the crowd of soldiers across the dock. Once I'm sure they're all turned away, I give Sanderson the signal, and we both pull ourselves onto the dock behind the two men slowly. Once I'm behind my guy, I reach around his head, cover his mouth, and stab him in the chest in what feels like one fluid movement. When he stops struggling, I lower him onto the docks and slip him into the water, pulling my knife out in the process. Sanderson practically mirrors all of my moves beside me, and when we're done, we both slide our knives back into their sheaths, grip our guns, and head onto the vessel.

I take point with Sanderson right behind me. We take a left down the first empty corridor, heading toward where they should be bringing the cargo. At the next turn, I glance around the corner to see a man walking down the hallway. I pull my head back and give Sanderson a signal to stop while pulling out my knife again. When the man walks by, I grab him by the back of his collar, slam him into the opposite wall, and stab him in the neck. "They'll come across this body eventually," I whisper to Sanderson. "We need to pick up the pace."

We continue down the corridor and make another left, head down a small staircase and make a right. I signal Sanderson to stop when I hear voices further down the corridor along with some clunks and thumps. "I think we're close," I whisper, and I signal him to move with me. We shuffle along the corridor slowly as we get closer to the voices. When we reach a door at the end of the corridor, we stop and I peek around the corner. I withdraw, look to Sanderson, and give a slight nod. I check my gun then hold up three fingers to Sanderson and start counting down. Three. Two. One.

We both turn through the door and start firing on the enemy, Sanderson on the left side and me on the right. The first man I shoot is the unlucky victim, the one who doesn't even get to see his executioner before he dies. The second man I shoot is the victim of shock, suspended in the moment between fear and deciding to go for his gun. The third man has already made the decision, reaches for his weapon, but it's never trained on its intended target. The fourth man manages to get his weapon pointed at me, but a round of bullets stops him short before he has a chance to pull the trigger.

With that, the room is silent. The only sounds I can hear are the steady sounds of our breathing, and I think to myself again, _So far, so good._ "If they haven't already found that body, they'll be expecting these guys to report in soon," I say when I get a look at the radios on their belts. "Sanderson, rig the C4. I'll start searching the crates."

Sanderson gives me a nod then heads to the far corner of the room to set the first batch of explosives. I turn toward the cargo in the middle of the room and start prying the crate open. "Hotel Bravo, we've reached the cargo," I say as I open another crate in the room. "They're explosives, not the same as the ones Jengo Kwame was dealing."

"Copy that," an operative says over the coms.

"Bravo Two, any intel indicating where they were taking the cargo?" says Shepherd.

I glance around the room and then start searching the bodies of the men on the ground around us while Sanderson continues setting the explosives. I can hear chatter through their radios, but none of the voices sound alarmed, so it's my guess that they still don't know we're here.

"Negative," I say through the coms once I finish searching. "No manifest of any kind."

"Bravo Two, can you describe the explosives? Is there anything to indicate where they are from or who they are made by?" the operative says on the other end.

"There's a symbol on some of the explosives and on the crates," I say.

"Bravo Two," Shepherd says, "procure that symbol and blow the cargo."

"Copy that, Hotel Bravo," I say, and I grab one of the grenades with the symbol on it. Sanderson pulls open one of the crates once he's done setting the last of the explosives and gives a low whistle.

"They're _all_ explosives?" he says.

"Yeah," I mutter with a sideways smirk. "Maybe we didn't need the C4 after all. This is gonna cause one hell of a bang."

That's when I start to hear yelling from the radios. "Time to go," I shout to Sanderson, and we both head out the door and back the way we came. Along the way, we come across the man who's shouting into the coms and shoot him down. "When we get to the docks, head straight for that cargo," I shout as we round the corners toward the exit. When we reach it, we come face to face with two men who have their guns ready. Sanderson shoots first—probably saves my life because of it too—and I use the momentum of my movement to butt the other guy in the head with the back of my gun. When he hits the ground, I point my gun at him and shoot.

The moment we emerge onto the docks, a storm of bullets is ricocheting around us. I shoot at the group of soldiers across the dock while Sanderson moves ahead of me and takes out the two patrollers heading toward us down the pier. Once two tangos go down, I go sprinting after Sanderson while still shooting at the approaching tangos. As we dive behind the life-saving cargo, I spot a glimpse of more enemies approaching from the east.

"Hotel Bravo, we've made contact with the enemy," I yell into the coms while Sanderson pivots out of cover and returns fire. "We're heading to the secondary exfil."

"Copy that," the operative on the other end says, and I just want to hit him for how calm he sounds.

"Get to the truck," I shout to Sanderson, and, after shooting down one more tango, he sprints ahead of me toward the truck. I poke out of cover and return fire for a few seconds before following, a bullet whizzing right past my head in the process. "Get in the back," I shout to Sanderson when we reach the truck, and he pulls himself into the bed in one fluid movement while I hop in the front seat and put the truck into drive while a few bullets send sparks flying around my head. Thank god I left the damn thing running, or they'd probably have us while I start it.

When I see the militia hopping into their own vehicles, I shout back to Sanderson, "Blow the C4."

It's only a few seconds before he does, and the sound of the explosion all but deafens me. The blast sends small pieces of the vessel flying everywhere and a black cloud high into the sky, but that wasn't what I was watching for. The immensity of the blast had the desired effect; the militia on the docks closer to the vessel are rocked by the vibrations while the others still on the docks are stunned by it. It gives us the split second we need to pull onto the road and start driving.

I follow the road north. The enemy vehicles pull up behind us quickly, firing on mounted turrets all the while. The distance is too far for their shots to be accurate, but they start hitting others on the road around us, sending vehicles awry. In dodging them, I swerve the car back and forth between our lane and the oncoming lane. As the enemy vehicles gain on us, Sanderson starts shooting back at them. He hits one of the drivers, and the car careens off the road.

"The favela of the exfil is just ahead," I shout to Sanderson. "Hang on!"

"RPGs," he shouts back without missing a beat.

A "shit" finds its way out of my lips, and I start turning the wheel sporadically to keep our path varied. I faintly hear mention from Bravo One through the coms of a storehouse and something about a plan B, but dodging another vehicle takes my concentration away from it. The streams of bullets make me glance back at Sanderson to make sure he's alright, but my fears are unfounded. He's still shooting back at the tangos and somehow managing to avoid taking shots.

"There's the favela," I shout when I see it ahead of us. I dodge another car and say, "It's on foot to the exfil point." Just before I say, "Get ready," a burst dulls my ears and a tremor rocks me forward with barely enough time to steady myself with a hand on the dash. Seconds later, I'm suspended in the air for the shortest moment of time, feeling a weightless vertigo as the truck turns on its side. My shoulder hits the ceiling of the truck first, and whips my neck along with it. The windshield cracks when the truck hits the ground and sparks blind my peripherals. I feel another pain in my shoulder as I hit the side of the truck—now the bottom—and vibrations fill my body as the truck slides against the ground.

I can't move or hear anything for a minute after the truck comes to a stop. Seconds pass, and my hearing returns to me—the first thing that tickles my ear is the crackling of fire. I lift myself off the ground with my left arm and then place my hands against the windshield. After studying the tiny cracks for a few seconds, I twist myself around so my feet are in front of me, and I start kicking. The glass comes free quickly, and after the shatter of the windshield hitting the ground, I start to hear the screams and the gunfire around us.

I place a hand on my gun and crawl out the front of the car. Once I have a foot on the ground, I quickly pivot behind the truck to find Sanderson crouched up against the truck bed, ducking from the incoming fire. "Flash," he shouts, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I yell as I lift my gun over the top of the truck and shoot toward the enemy. "How about you?" He looks fine to me, but I can't imagine how he would be—he probably got thrown from the truck bed.

"I'm a little banged up, but I'm okay," he shouts back to me.

I look behind me to assess the damage. The truck did one thing for us—the favela is right behind us, and the secondary exfil is just up the hill. I glance back to Sanderson and say, "Up the favela! Use the houses for cover. Watch out for civilians."

He nods, and we both return fire at the enemy before sprinting back to the favela and dodging into a house. We cross the room, bumping a few frenzied civilians as we pass, and kick out the back door. We head up the stairways between the houses for a few seconds before debris starts spraying around us. I grab a grenade from my belt, pull the pin, and cook it for a few seconds before dropping it down the stairs behind us. The spray of bullets stops momentarily when the explosion goes off, but starts again soon enough.

When we're about halfway up the hill, I hear the chopper nearing overhead. "There's our exit," I shout, and Sanderson looks up briefly when the chopper goes by. "Go, go, go!"

Two thirds of the way there. My heart is punching the inside of my chest, and I imagine my insides bruising. No breath seems deep enough as we plow our way up the hill. My lungs are working rapidly, as if saying with each breath, "Just one more," and from the looks of it Sanderson's are doing the same. He's red-faced and drenched in sweat and dirt, and I'm probably the same.

I turn slightly to drop another grenade behind me, and I feel a slight sting on my arm. A bullet graze—the adrenaline helps the pain fade quickly, and the grenade slips out of my grasp before I'm holding it too long. Another explosion, another moment free of gunfire, and then it starts again, this time coming from our 4 'o' clock too.

I know we're close to the chopper when I see the dust flying around me. "Almost there," I shout to Sanderson, and his feet seem to pick up speed. I will my legs to pump harder in response, and we break free from the houses in the favela, heading straight for the chopper. Sanderson jumps in first and then turns to give me an arm. I grab it gratefully and leap in after him. No sooner do my feet hit the ground that the chopper lifts off and starts drifting away from the favela. The operatives in the cabin return fire at the hostiles until we're out of range, and then they lean back into the chopper and sit in their seats.

"Hotel Bravo," the operative shouts into the coms, "Bravo Two is out. I repeat, Bravo Two is out."

"Copy that," Shepherd says, his voice calm. "Bravo One, give me a sitrep."

"The place is set to blow," MacTavish shouts through the coms, and I can hear gunfire in the background. "Waiting for extraction."

"Roger that," the operative in the cockpit says. "Delta is inbound to extract."

We pass back over the road and head west in the direction of the warehouse where we started. Within minutes, we pass over it and another favela and come across another warehouse district where I can see gunfire. As the helo descends, the operative next to me shouts, "Suppressing fire!"

Sanderson and I both crouch in the doorway next to the two operatives and start firing on the enemy below us. When the chopper nears the ground in front of Ghost and MacTavish, I pivot around and move to the opposite door. Sanderson is on the other side, and we both offer our hands out to our comrades. Sanderson pulls Ghost in while I pull MacTavish in, and once MacTavish hits the floor of the helo, he yells, "All bodies in. Get us the hell outta here!"

The chopper lifts off and Ghost takes a seat by the doorway overlooking the warehouse. Once we're about a hundred feet in the air, Ghost says, "Blowing in three… Two… One…" He triggers the switch in his hand, and the warehouse below blows in several different sections. The roof collapses in and sends debris flying in every direction. Seconds later, we're out of firing range of the enemy, and the operatives pull back into the chopper and fill the remaining seats of the cabin.

MacTavish sighs the minute their asses hit the chairs. He and Ghost have no major injuries—Ghost has a puncture mark in his vest, but there's no blood, so I assume he's fine. MacTavish is only covered in bumps and bruises and a few bleeding cuts on the right side of his head. Otherwise, they look no worse for wear than Sanderson and I do—tired as hell, but alive and glad for it.

"Hotel Bravo," MacTavish says as he glances at me. A slight smirk creeps its way up one corner of his mouth. "Objective complete. All bodies in. We're heading home."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I think this is my favorite chapter so far. I had a lot of fun writing it!

Hope you all enjoyed!

Cheers~

HK


	15. Chapter 13: Play It By Ear

"That's a nasty bruise," MacTavish says from the doorway of the clinic in the sub.

I look to him and give him a crooked smirk. "Could have been worse, and it's nothing compared to the whiplash," I mutter as the medic pokes and prods at my arm.

As the medic moves my arm around for me, she says, "Looks like you're good. It's possible you have a hairline fracture, but there are no breaks." She dabs at the bullet graze on the same arm with alcohol rub and uses medical tape to tape gauze to it. "You're set to go, Sergeant," she says to me, and I stand and head to the doorway where MacTavish turns and we walk together down the corridor.

"Let me guess," I say to him. "Time for debrief?"

"If you didn't want it so soon, you should've gotten more banged up," he jokes. "Ghost and Sanderson are already waiting."

When we get to the briefing room, Sanderson and Ghost are standing next to each other in front of the table. MacTavish and I step up next to them and look to Shepherd who has his back turned and is puffing cigar smoke into the air. He glances back at us with his next blow and says, "Good. Everyone's here," and he stubs out the cigar in the ashtray that's sitting on the side of the table. He steps forward, clasps his hands behind his back, and says, "Good work, gentlemen." He doesn't bother making the gender distinction this time which makes me hate him a little less. Just a little. "My operatives are analyzing the weaponry you brought back for us now, Henderson. The warehouse and the shipment were both destroyed. It was a good day."

"Did you find Rojas?" Sanderson mumbles in MacTavish's direction.

"The target that Riley and MacTavish followed wasn't Rojas," Shepherd says.

"We think it was Rojas' right hand man, but there's no way to know for sure," MacTavish says. "Once you two were compromised, he got the hell out of there. We didn't find Rojas, but the target led us to one of his storage houses before he fled."

"Do we have any way of tracking him down?" I ask.

"Negative," says MacTavish. "He got away before we could get a lock on him. He's back underground."

"We'll try to keep an eye on the area, but you four caused quite the commotion," Shepherd says. "We'll have to keep our noses out of Brazil for a while. Wouldn't want to piss anyone off." He pulls another cigar out and lights it—I hope this guy gets lung cancer—and, after taking a few puffs, says, "Mission accomplished, gentlemen. Let's get you back home."

That was as good of a 'dismissed' as any, and the four of us step out of the room and head down the corridor to the barracks. "So," MacTavish says to me once we're there, "I hope you didn't show Sanderson up too badly." He gestures to my shoulder and laughs.

I laugh with him and say, "Are you kidding? This guy is like a roach. He wouldn't die no matter how hard they tried to kill us."

MacTavish laughs at this and then turns to Sanderson, who's listening to us from a bunk across from MacTavish. "Hey, Roach," he says, "watch out for this one. Next time, you might just have to pull her ass out of the fire."

Sanderson laughs nervously—I don't think he's used to an informal captain yet. "I thought I'd have to," he says. "That was a nasty crash."

"That's Flash for ya," MacTavish jokes. "She's the best recipe for destruction."

"You're one to talk," I mutter. "What was that about 'Plan B'? If Plan B is always busting out the C4, I think you need to make that Plan C and leave Plan B to Ghost." Ghost and MacTavish both laugh at this, and Sanderson joins in.

When the laughter subsides, MacTavish outstretches a hand to Sanderson and says, "Welcome to the one-four-one, Roach."

'Roach' takes MacTavish's hand and grips it tightly as the two shake. "Glad to be here," Roach says. "Will I meet the rest of the team back at base?"

"Meet?" I mutter with a laugh. "Royce and Meat will probably ambush you."

"You can say that again," MacTavish says before he joins my laughter. "You're one of the team now, Roach. You'll get a warm welcome."

* * *

><p>"Warm welcome" was an understatement. When we get back to base, Meat tackles Roach and hugs him in a chokehold like they've known each other for years. Royce is a little more civil, but not much. I remember the force of his punch against my arm as he does the same thing to Roach. I'm glad it's not me this time—I don't think my arm could take the abuse.<p>

"Bloody hell, Flash," Archer says with a laugh as he pokes at my arm, which is starting to look yellower by the minute. "What did you do this time?"

"One of these days Archer," I mutter as I shove him away from me.

"Oh, making threats now, are we?" he asks as he steps back over and shoves me back—he takes it light on the shoulder.

"Take it easy," MacTavish says, his voice overpowering everyone. "I'm tired as all hell," he says. "We're all on standby until further notice." Standby is just his official way of saying that we're taking some time off from drills. Most of us still spend time training in the rec room or the gun room or running the course solo in our free time.

Once I shower and get all of the grime off my skin from the mission, the gun room is the first place I head. Worm and Ozone are both there, one of them practicing assembling weaponry while the other practices sniper fire down the range. Ozone waves to me from the gun table, and I wave back. Worm doesn't acknowledge me at all, so I walk right past him without a second glance. I head into the observation office and shut the door behind me. It's not the first time Ozone has seen me do this, so he doesn't give it a second thought, but Worm looks back from his station and stares at me through the window for a moment before continuing his fire. I sit down on the floor so that no one can see me through the window. Aside from the muffled sound of the gunfire, the room is quiet, just how I like it.

Not counting the distant soreness in my arm, I feel good. It's the first mission I've made it through without something going wrong. To top it off, getting an FNG wasn't the nightmare I thought it was going to be. No previous training and no detailed planning and Roach and I still worked together like clockwork. It's the first time in a long time I've felt like things are going the way they should.

I doze off as I lean against the wall opposite the door. I see West's face again, but it's not the same. It isn't the Middle East. It's Brazil, and there are bullets flying all around us. When I look at the houses all around me, I can't tell if the favela is in Rio or Minas Gerais, but there are civilians running everywhere. When I look back at West, he's not West anymore, but Ghost. He's giving me orders, but I don't hear them as I run toward the house where MacTavish has been captured. The next thing I know, I'm in Rio pulling MacTavish into the chopper. I want to hug him right there, to hold him close to me until we're out of range, but I don't. I hold myself back, acutely aware of the other operatives in the chopper, Shepherd's operatives. So I sit down in the seat behind me and melt from my relief, no outlet, no one to share it with. The sounds of my heartbeat and the chopper blades resonate slowly together until they fade out completely.

It isn't until the gunfire stops that I realize how long I've been sitting in the room. I glance at the camera screens on the table by the window to see that Worm and Ozone are both gone from the bunker and the room is completely empty. How long was I out?

The door opens seconds later—or maybe I dozed off again—and MacTavish steps into the room before me. "There you are," he says. "I've been lookin' for you."

I yawn as I say, "You found me."

He takes a seat on the floor next to me and says, "Needed a quiet place to think again?"

"That's why I came here," I mutter with a laugh, "but I guess I nodded off instead."

"I'm glad everything went well in Rio," he says after staring at me for a few seconds.

I can't help but sneer at this. "Don't tell me you were worried. That's my job."

"You mean you weren't?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile. He's skeptical.

"I was before we got there, but Roach is everything Ghost said he was," I say. "I'm surprised we haven't recruited him until now."

"You look bushed," MacTavish says.

"Tell me about it," I say as I lean my head back against the wall and turn my head to face MacTavish. The cuts on the side of his head stand out, and I can't help it when I say, "How'd that happen, anyway?"

"Ah, you know," he says with a smirk, "the usual. Flying debris, falling debris, basically debris everywhere. Turns out glass can cut you when it shatters." We both laugh before he pinches at my arm and says, "What about that?"

I smile and say, "It turns out you can get thrown around the car when you don't wear a seatbelt."

"That'll teach you," he mutters. Neither of us say anything for a while and I start to doze off again. "You should hit the hay," MacTavish says, and the sound of his voice starts me awake. I take my head off of his shoulder—I'm not sure when it got there—and yawn again.

"Make me," I mutter with a smile. My taunt is almost laughable through the grogginess in my voice.

MacTavish laughs and says, "Oh, no. We're not playing this game right now." He links a hand around my arm and pulls me to my feet as he gets to his. "Come on," he says. "Don't make me drag you to the barracks. What am I going to do with you…?"

I yawn again and laugh at this. I lean over and peck him on the cheek as I lace my fingers through his and then say, "Play it by ear, MacTavish. That's what you're best at, isn't it?"

He smirks at this, leans in, and plants his lips on mine. I can still smell Rio on him, the smell of dirt, sweat, and sulfur. He slinks an arm around my back and pulls me closer as he parts my lips with his tongue, and I can taste the bitter yet sweet taste of a cigar. I slink one arm around his back and start playing with the peach fuzz on his neck, and he smiles against my lips, exhaling the sweet smell of his breath through his nose.

When he pulls his lips from mine, he rests his forehead against mine and looks into my eyes. "I'm glad things went well in Rio," he repeats with a smile.

A million different thoughts race through my head at once as I try to think of what to say to that. I'm glad, too, for more reasons than one—the threat of impending doom moving behind us, for starters. I'm glad that we finally got a mission accomplished that didn't end in critical injuries or _death_. I'm glad Roach turned out to be so much more than I thought he'd be. I'm glad that my first mission with the one-four-one heading up a team turned out well. I'm glad I didn't get thrown from that car and die. I'm glad my right shoulder didn't join my left in dislocation experience. I'm glad to be standing here now with MacTavish. I'm glad about so many things, it's hard to sum it all up into one sentence, but I know that's not what he means.

He's glad things in Rio went well. He's glad I didn't get injured or worse. I'm glad too. When I heard his voice over the coms, when I leaned out of the helo and saw that he was okay, when he grabbed my hand and I pulled him into the helo, I didn't miss the way my heart skipped a beat, the way I felt the breath taken from my chest, the way the knot in my stomach disappeared. It's not something I've felt for anyone before, never so strongly, but I know what it is.

So what do I say to him? My mind doesn't stop racing until my thoughts fall on one statement: play it by ear.

So I decide to play it by ear. I look back into MacTavish's eyes and whisper, "I love you."

He smiles at me and we kiss again.

He stares at me with his blue eyes and says, "I love you, too."


	16. Chapter 14: Operation Kingfish

All warfare is based on deception.

What a laugh. Life is based on deception. Everyone deceives everybody in some way or another. In warfare, it just happens to be a little more costly. Deceit always costs someone in the end, whether you're the one being deceived or the one doing the deceiving. It always costs you a little piece of yourself. The ironic thing is that it takes the truth coming out before that piece is lost.

A kick to the back of the knee, an elbow to the face; but he parries it and takes a punch at my ribs, making me coil over just slightly, but it's enough for him to send an elbow to the side of my face. It connects and sends me spinning, but I use the momentum to swipe my feet underneath his. When I come full circle, I loop my arm around his neck and double behind him in one fluid motion that allows me to grab his free arm and pull it around his back. With a smile, I stick my thumb to his neck.

"Bloody hell, you win," MacTavish says with a sigh. I can't help my growing smile as I release him from my strangle hold. He stands up and stretches his neck as he says, "That's three in a row, Flash. You taking pointers from someone?"

His question makes me laugh. "Pointers" is certainly one way to put it. We've had several missions since the one in Brazil—a few shakedowns, more stamping out of the local militia, a recon operation in Kazakhstan, and even a hostage situation in South Africa. They all got me a little more hands-on experience in melee combat, especially that last one. The easiest way to take out a captor without hitting a hostage is by getting in close and disarming him—so long as he doesn't have buddies backing him up. That was also my sixth mission after Rio in which I led one of the teams. Shepherd started including me in briefings with Ghost and MacTavish a few missions before that one, and I steadily started spending more of my free time training in the rec room instead of sorting out my thoughts in the gun room.

"Either that or you're starting to take it easy on me," I say with a laugh. The half-smile that he gives me makes my smile bigger, if that's even possible. "Sore loser," I mutter with a playful tone.

"Damn, Flash," Meat says. He and the others are either watching or training in other parts of the rec room. "You are the man! Well, er—"

"Hope I'm not interrupting," someone voices from behind me. I turn to see Shepherd standing there with a serious look on his face—not that I've ever seen him look otherwise. "MacTavish, Riley, Henderson," he says. "I have some news. Accompany me to my office."

I glance to MacTavish and then look back to Shepherd, who is already walking out the door and no doubt expecting us to follow. Shepherd doesn't actually lead us back to his office, but instead takes us to the briefing room where he stands and faces the wall with one hand behind his back and the other on the cigar in his mouth.

"An informant contacted us about Kingfish," Shepherd says without turning. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see MacTavish's brows furrow and Ghost shift to his left leg.

"He's resurfaced?" MacTavish asked.

"It's been almost three years," Ghost mutters.

"Hold on a minute," I say, trying not to sound as annoyed as I feel. "Kingfish?"

"Task Force 141 was established for the purpose of hunting down Kingfish," Shepherd says as he turns around and tosses a file on the table. I pull it toward me with three fingers and study the picture on the front of the file. "Vladimir Makarov," Shepherd says.

"This information isn't on a need-to-know basis?" I ask as I glance up at Shepherd and prod at the edge of the folder.

"You're one of the big dogs in this now," Shepherd says as he gestures to Ghost and MacTavish.

I read through the file briefly and say, "So this guy took over Imran Zakhaev's assets."

Shepherd nods and puffs out some smoke then says, "The immediate threat of war may have ended with Zakhaev, but there will be trouble as long as Makarov is alive."

"That's why we set out on Operation Kingfish," MacTavish says. "But it was a trap. We lost Captain Price, and Makarov was nowhere to be found."

My brows furrow at this. Captain Price? I'd heard MacTavish mention him a few times before. The first time he didn't name him. He mentioned him briefly after that, though, when I was telling him about Jackson and Vasquez. It wasn't a long conversation, and he didn't disclose very much information about the man, but one thing was clear; he wasn't just MacTavish's CO. He was his friend and mentor, and he was dead. But as I understood it, he died with the rest of MacTavish's squad going after Zakhaev. I'll have to ask him about this, but now isn't the time.

"You said you had information," MacTavish says to Shepherd.

"Makarov is planning something, a big operation a few weeks from now," Shepherd says. "We need to get a foot in, see what he's up to."

"Who is this informant?" Ghost asks. If his slanted eyebrows are any hint, he looks just as skeptical about this as I feel. I figured maybe it was just my general biased toward Shepherd, but maybe there's something to it after all.

"No name given," Shepherd says. "If he's as close to Makarov as he claims, then he needs to keep his head down."

"He's our foot in the door?" MacTavish asks.

"That's what we're hoping," Shepherd responds.

"Are you sending one of us in?" Ghost asks.

"No," Shepherd says after a drag from his cigar. "We need someone who can pass off as Russian, who can worm his way in to Makarov's circle. I have a few hopefuls picked out. I'll be putting them to the test soon enough."

"Is this an assassination, or is this guy going to be a mole?" I ask.

"No assassinations," Shepherd says. "I don't want Makarov out of the picture until we know what he's up to." Shepherd takes another drag of his cigar and says, "I'll keep you informed on the situation. Until then, make sure you're ready for anything. Dismissed."

MacTavish turns on a heel and is out the door before Ghost or me. We follow behind shortly, and, with an apologetic nod to Ghost, I head after him. He's far ahead of me by the time we're out the door, but it's easy to imagine where he's going, so there's no need to figure that out. I head to the barracks, approaching his quarters from the back door instead of from the front. After countless times sneaking in late at night to vent, those frequent meetings during the day for intimate conversation, and those few times when pretty much everyone else was on leave that we—well, barging into his room is hardly rare at this point.

MacTavish is sitting on his bunk staring at the floor when I enter. He doesn't even look up to see who it is—he must already know. Despite the questions floating around in my head, I keep my lips sealed and slip onto the bed next to MacTavish. I vent to him about my problems enough—it's time to return the favor.

He doesn't speak at first, doesn't even look at me until I place a hand on his shoulder, and even then his eyes are somewhere else. Looking at me is just his effort at pulling himself back to the now. It doesn't work at first, but eventually he looks back at the ground and sighs. "Price stayed behind during Operation Kingfish so the rest of us could get out," he says. "I've been waiting for news on Makarov."

"You told me Price died during the Zakhaev op," I say, and he looks back to me again.

"I couldn't tell you about Operation Kingfish," he says. "It was restricted information."

"I understand," I mutter, and there's another silence that follows. "John," I say. It pulls his attention to me completely—I've only used his name a few times before now and only when we were alone. "Do you really trust Shepherd?"

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"This whole thing doesn't sound fishy to you?"

"Why should it? We've been waiting for this for three years," MacTavish says as a furrow appears in his brows. "We need to find Makarov. This is what the one-four-one was founded for."

"That's exactly why I'm doubtful," I mutter as I stand and look down at him. Thinking back to the file, I say, "Wasn't the original mission kill or capture? Why does Shepherd want to spy on him now? Why don't we just kill him and be done with it?"

"Shepherd's in charge. It's his call," MacTavish says. "I'm sure he has his reasons."

"You really trust him that much?"

MacTavish stands and says, "What do you want me to do, Elaine? You want me to say I want the bastard dead?"

"Shouldn't you?" I say as I take a step backward. "This Makarov is the guy who's responsible for Price's death, isn't he? You should want him dead!"

He glances to his M1911 sitting on his bed stand and says, "Price taught me to get the mission done. If Shepherd wants to observe Makarov, then that's what we'll do."

"Do you think Price would agree with that? He stayed behind to let you get away, didn't he? If your roles were reversed, I doubt he'd feel the way you do," I say with a frown.

MacTavish turns around and steps forward until he's looking down at me, slams his fist against the wall, and says, "Oh, fuck off, Elaine! You didn't know Price."

"I—"

"Price was a friend, but the mission was more important than that. Price knew that, and I know that too," MacTavish says. "You'd rather drop the mission and waste the sacrifices of your comrades. I won't expect you to understand."

We stare at each other for a moment. MacTavish's brows are in a ridge over his eyes, casting a shadow across his face. I try to mimic his expression, to show him that I'm as convicted in my opinion as he seems in his, but my mind goes to Jackson, to Vasquez and West, and, even though leaving the field wasn't my choice, his words still hit me hard. I'm the first one to break and look away. I feel short of breath and there's a hole in my chest preventing me from speaking. I have to take a deep breath for the feeling to dissipate, and even then the slightest bit of it lingers inside me.

"I'm sorry," MacTavish says in a soft voice, and when I look back up at him, his face is soft and apologetic. "I didn't mean that."

I look away again and snort and say, "Doesn't mean you're wrong."

"Elaine—"

"When it comes down to it, I just don't have what it takes."

"Elaine—"

"And I _didn't_ know Price. I shouldn't have said that."

"Oi, numpty," MacTavish says as he grabs me by the shoulders. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," I mumbled. "I don't trust Shepherd, but I shouldn't use Price to persuade you to the same thinking. I don't know the first thing about Price."

MacTavish laughs lightheartedly, probably just to ease the tension, but it's still good to hear. "You remind me of him in a way," he says as he turns around and sits back on his bunk. "If it had been you in his shoes, you would have done exactly the same thing." I see the compliment in his words, but I can't bring myself to accept it. Would I have done the same thing? I don't know. If I was anything like Price, West would probably still be alive, wouldn't he? If I was truly willing to give my life to save him, then I would have done it, and he would still be here.

"I'm sorry, Elaine," MacTavish says as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I need some time to think."

I don't say anything—what can I say? We both apologized, but it didn't really mean anything. There was too much truth in the words we both said. I'd almost prefer going back, doing a retake of this whole conversation, hell, the conversation not having happened at all. The only thing that's left to do now is leave, so that's what I do, to the only place I can be alone, the only place I can think.

It's dark in the gun room, but it's not comforting like usual. Nothing is, not the solitude nor the silence, not the tight enclosed space of the observation room. It's like something is crushing me from the inside out, like I'm collapsing into myself like a black hole. I don't even have time to reach the observation room before I crumple onto the ground with a sharp, dry sob, as if everything just comes rushing out of me at once.

And it's not because of the things MacTavish said to me, not really. It's the things I said to him, the pure audacity that I thought I could talk about someone who was important to him like I knew him, use his memory like a tool to influence MacTavish's opinions. I took a man who died a noble death and turned him into blackmail against the one person I care about more than anyone else. Then, to top it off, he relates me to that self-sacrificing man—sincerely!—even though I'm nothing like him, can probably never be anything like him. And then it goes back to West. It always goes back to West, doesn't it? And no matter how hard I work to get past this, it will never be enough. He'll always be there haunting me, and nothing I ever do will change that. So I sob. Of course I do. I can't change it, so I'll just let it tear me apart, just like everything else I've given up on.

"Uh… Flash…? Sorry, I…" I hear from somewhere across the room.

I jump the moment the voice touches my ears and scramble to wipe the tears from my face. A good few seconds pass before I glance up to see Roach standing before me, and I immediately reach up to cover my eyes and the imminent tear flow that's on its way with an, "Oh—god…" To make matters worse, I stutter at the G, and my voice cracks as I finish the word.

I keep my eyes covered as I pull my knees up to my chest. I'm hoping he'll just go away, just disappear if I cover my eyes long enough, but when I peek through my fingers at him, he crouching right in front of me with a half-outstretched hand and a furrow in his brow. I close my fingers and take a deep breath to prevent any sobs from finding their way up my throat, and then I wait. Maybe he'll get up and walk away, and then we can just forget about this and never talk about it again. But I can only hold my breath for so long, and when I run out of air, sobs echo out of my lungs in rapid succession and I have to curl forward to help push them out before I choke on them.

I almost want to laugh when I feel Roach's hand rubbing my back—how stupid was I to hope he'd disappear? It only serves to make it worse, at least at first. My cries come flooding out of me, like his hand opened the sluice gate to all of the emotions that I was keeping bottled up inside me. I find myself thinking of everything, then, every single thing that has ever upset me, big or small, even the fact that I grew up living with foster families—I haven't thought about _that_ since I was in _elementary school_. Even then I think of how strange crying is, how it turns into some personal pity party of everything that's ever gone wrong in your life. Stranger still is the fact that I know this and still I do it.

It isn't until Roach turns to sit beside me, until he pulls me into a hug that I start to calm down. I lean into it willfully and yet unconsciously, and, once I leave a wet mark of salty tears and snot on his shirt, my sobs starts to slow down. I feel the air come back to my lungs, the tension in my shoulders start to dissolve, and my vision starts to clear up. I let go of his shirt where I was clinging to it and wipe my face with the back of my hands. "I'm sorry," I manage to squeak out as I stare at the blotch on his shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks hesitantly, and I can't help the hoarse laugh that escapes me.

"There's not really much to say," I mutter with a sniffle. "I just. Ugh. It's just everything. You know those moments when it feels like everything is going to hell? This is one of those."

"Oh," Roach says as he laughs under his breath.

"You're laughing at me?" I say with a lingering quiver in my voice.

"No, no," says Roach, his hands raised innocently. "I was just thinking…"

I wait a few seconds before saying, "Thinking about?"

"Well," he says with a smirk. "I thought everything was going to hell when we crashed our vehicle in Rio, but you got us out of there. And remember that recon mission in Kazakhstan? Everything was going to hell when our coms went down, but you got us back with the Captain in one piece. Then there was that mission in South Africa. I thought for sure that tango was going to kill you went you went for him, but you fought your way out of that just fine. I mean," he says as he rubs the back of his neck, "I'm sure you'll find a way past this, whatever it is, and… Sorry, I'm not very good at pep talks…"

With another sniffle, I joke, "Well, admitting it is the first step," and then I laugh a little bit. "It helped. Really. I'll be okay now. I think I just need some time to sort out my thoughts."

"Yeah, uh, okay," Roach says as he gets to his feet.

"Roach," I mumble after he takes a few steps and he turns back around to face me. "I'm sorry you had to put up with that."

"Uh—"

"I mean, thank you. Really," I say.

"Sure, Flash," he says. "And if you ever want to, you know, talk or something, I'm, uh, I'll be around."

"I appreciate that," I say with a smile, and Roach smiles back briefly then leaves.

A few more tears spill over my cheeks once he's gone, but soon my eyes dry out and the only lingering feeling is the swollenness of my eyelids—they'll be red tomorrow, that's for sure. I get to my feet once my breathing is steady again and step over to the gun tables on the side of the room and grab an M1911. I feel better with it in my hand. A handle, a trigger—control. I look to the dummy boards at the end of the firing range and try to visualize Makarov's face.

It's not about MacTavish or Price. It's not even really about West, not directly, anyway. It's about me. It's always been about me, about the unresolved feelings bottling up inside me. There's no way to bring West back. I can't change that. I can't bring back Vasquez or Jackson. I can't take back what I said to MacTavish. I can't help him change what happened to Price. I can't change the things that have happened to me or who I am. But there is one thing I _can_ do.

I fire the full mag down the range, half of it at the torso and half of it at the head, and keep firing through the clicking of my empty gun. I throw the gun down and grab an M4A1 off the table and start firing that until that mag is empty, and the gunshots echo through the room even after my finger leaves the trigger.

Damn what Shepherd says. Damn what MacTavish says. Damn orders. Damn protocol. Makarov is dangerous, the prodigy of Zakhaev, the man who almost started open war between Russia and the United States. It doesn't matter what he's planning. It needs to end. For Price. For Jackson. For Vasquez. For West. For all of the soldiers who have ever died trying to end what Makarov may very well start. If I ever meet Makarov face to face, I'll kill him myself, and damn the consequences. I've spent too much time following orders and not enough time doing what needs to be done, and where has it gotten me? I'm broken, and there's no way to fix me, but I can make a choice. I can choose what to do next. Makarov _needs_ to die.

Operation Kingfish is back in play.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ** There it is. This is our pivot into the events of Modern Warfare 2; Flash is going to be heading down a very difficult road in the future, and it's only going to get harder from there. Thanks for sticking with her this far, and I hope you continue to stick with her!

Cheers~

HK


	17. Chapter 15: Cliffhanger

"_So how do I look?"_

"_Like one of the bad guys. Perfect for your undercover assignment."_

"_So Makarov is the prize."_

"_Makarov's no prize. He's a whore. A mad-dog killer for the highest bidder. Just remember your new identity. It'll keep you alive. Welcome to the 141. Best handpicked group of warriors on the planet."_

"_It's an honor, sir. When do I meet the rest of the team?"_

"_They're on a mission recovering a downed ACS module behind enemy lines."_

"_Their feet wet?"_

"_Imagine they're just about freezing right now."_

* * *

><p>"If this storm picks up, it will lower visibility," Ghost says through the sounds of the helo blades. "Might cause problems on our end."<p>

"The enemy will have the same problem. As long as we stay hidden, the storm will work in our favor," MacTavish says.

"You sure you don't want one more?" I ask him for the third time today.

"They'll have a harder time detecting us with just me and Roach. Besides," he says as he gauges the weight of the ice pick in his left hand, "we don't know how stable the ice is. Better to have just us two."

I chew the inside of my cheek a little bit at that. When we were briefed about this mission, I expected MacTavish to pick me as his wingman. Hell, I expected him to pick Ghost before anyone else, but he picked Roach instead, and I still don't understand why he'd rather have Roach than one of us. I keep thinking maybe it's payback for our argument, which we haven't talked about since, but that doesn't explain why he wouldn't bring Ghost instead of Roach. Maybe he just did it to keep up appearances, to keep Shepherd from getting suspicious, but he's never worried about it before.

My feelings must be visible on my face—or maybe I said part of that aloud, but I hope not—because MacTavish turns to me and says, "I need you and Ghost on sat support in case we need eyes out there. It's what you two are best at." I can't deny that. Ozone is good at computer shit, but he's missing two things that Ghost and I have together: Ghost is good at predicting tactics of both the enemy and MacTavish, and I'm good a pointing out and solving potential problems that might be encountered along the way.

"We've got your back," Ghost says in the light of my silence.

"Good," MacTavish says. "We won't be in contact until we get the hell out of there. Stay alert."

"Roger," Ghost and I say, though he sounds a little more enthused than I do.

"We're near the insertion point. Roach, you ready for this?" MacTavish asks.

"Ready," Roach says as he tests the grip of his own ice picks.

The helo pulls up close to a ridge that's being bombarded by blowing snow, and MacTavish opens the door. MacTavish looks to me and Ghost and says, "See ya on the far side." With that, he leaps out, and Roach follows right behind him. Ghost slides the door shut behind them and I bang on the cabin door where the Shadow Team operatives are piloting the helo, and the chopper pulls away from the ridge.

"Don't take it so personally," Ghost says.

"What are you talking about?" I mutter with an eye on the satellite feed.

"Please," he says. "You've been trying to worm your way onto the ground team since the briefing."

"I have more stealth experience than Roach does."

"But he's better at it," Ghost says, and my shoulders tense a little at that. He's not exactly wrong.

"Whatever," I mumble with a glance to him, aware of how childish it sounds.

"MacTavish isn't gonna take you with him for everything," says Ghost. "You should know that by now. It's not personal."

I sigh and look away from the radar, turning my full attention to Ghost. "I know," I say. "You're right. Or would be most days, anyway," I add. Ghost cocks his eyebrows at me at a side glance. "We had a bit of a falling out," I tell him. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed."

"Well," he says, "you two have been more… down to business."

"Good," I say, trying not to grind my teeth at the thought of it. "That's how it should be." I flash my mind across the image of Makarov and a furrow creeps its way into my brow.

Ghost looks over again and raises and eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? What's gotten into you?"

I sigh and say, "This business with Kingfish is just too important to let feelings get in the way."

Ghost's glance lingers on me for a few seconds before he looks back to his screen. He doesn't say anything, but I can sense his questions reside. My thoughts linger over Price, the cost of Operation Kingfish, the faceless hero that I've heard less about than I want to, and I wonder how much Ghost lost that day. "What did you think of Shepherd's news?" I ask.

I'm almost not sure he heard me until he says, "I don't know. Seems like we should just take Kingfish out. That was the original plan."

"So we agree," I mutter.

"But it's been three years," he adds. "Things have changed. Might be some things we don't know yet. Shepherd knows what he's doing." I can't help but laugh to myself. Of course he would use the same argument MacTavish does. Maybe MacTavish didn't tell Ghost about our argument, but I'm sure they've talked about this, and most best friends share the same opinions.

_Hypocrite_, I think to myself. _You don't want feelings to affect the mission, but you're sitting here whining over what happened._ And it doesn't stop. The fact that MacTavish and I haven't talked about it or spent any time alone together is a clear testament that it's bothering both of us. I don't know whether to be mad or hurt. I don't know if I've been the one avoiding him or him avoiding me—maybe both. I don't know if we've been avoiding each other out of fear or out of anger—maybe both there too. The only thing I _do_ know is that we've skirted around the issue for days.

"They should be nearing the base," Ghost says after who knows how long.

"The storm is picking up," I say as I look at the feed. "It'll provide good cover, but I hope it clears out by the time they hit the exfil point. Less trouble for us."

Ghost looks at me with impressed eyes and says, "This is what I mean. You aren't usually so down to business. When did you stop being a worrywart?"

"Ha, ha, very funny," I say. "MacTavish and Roach will both be fine. They can handle it."

"I'm used to hearing, 'I don't like this,' and, 'why do I have a bad feeling about this,'" Ghost says as he flicks a few buttons on his monitor.

"And I'm used to you shutting the hell up and staying off my back," I mutter.

"Wow, you as a bitch, huh," Ghost says. "Alright, I'll get off your case. Sheesh."

The long silence only serves to make me feel completely useless. I keep my eyes on the radar, trying to catch useful bits of information where I can, but the only helpful info is the sat info on the weather, which slowly starts to thin out as more time goes by. "Snow's clearing up," I say to Ghost, trying anything I can to fill the silence.

Ghost mutters, "Guess that's it for their cover," and messes with his monitor a bit more.

Seconds later I hear, "Kilo Six-One, the primary exfil point is compromised! We're en route to the backup LZ using enemy transport! Meet us there! Over!"

I smile and glance at Ghost as I say, "Sounds like they're in some trouble."

"That's MacTavish for you," Ghost replies, a smile in his eyes.

Over the coms, the pilot says, "Bravo Six, this is Kilo Six-One, roger that, out." I recognize the guy's voice from past missions. He always sounds calm and collected no matter what. I guess someone has to.

I feel weightless for a split second as the helo lurches in a different direction, and then we're on our way to the secondary exfil. "They gonna be able to make it to the back-up LZ?"

"You're the one who suggested the location," Ghost says as he looks at his own radar.

"Well," I mutter, "forgive me for doubting myself."

"Doubt," Ghost says with a laugh. "That _is_ more like the Flash I know. Don't worry. They'll make it."

"Bravo-Six, we're at bingo fuel. What's your status, over?" the pilot says as the helo pulls downward toward the LZ and lands slowly on the snow.

"Kilo Six-One, we're taking heavy fire but we're almost there! Standby!" MacTavish yells, then we hear, "Pin the throttle! Keep going!"

"Get ready to back 'em up," Ghost says as he slaps his monitors shut and grabs his gun. I mirror him as the back of the helo opens up.

The two of us move to the back of the chopper and hear, "Bravo Six we have you on visual. Get your ass on board! We're running on fumes here!" As the gate hits the ground, we move forward into the snow, and I see MacTavish and Roach leap off two snowmobiles and run in our direction. Roach heads on to the chopper first with MacTavish right behind him, and MacTavish pats me and Ghost on the backs before we move back into the helo.

"All bodies in," Ghost shouts into the coms.

One of the other operatives in the front says, "Okay, they got the ACS! We're outta here!" The gate starts pulling closed as Roach and MacTavish sit down. Ghost and I man the door until the gate slams shut, and then we join them at their seats as the helo becomes weightless for a brief moment before it lifts us away from the LZ.

"You guys okay?" I ask once the short burst of adrenaline stops ripping through my body.

With a smile on his face, MacTavish says, "Roach slipped through the base and planted that C4 like a ghost."

"Then how the hell did you two get compromised? Don't tell me it was your idea, _Captain_," I say with an urge to stick my tongue out at him. I hold it in and raise an eyebrow instead.

"Let me guess," Ghost begins, "you went to Plan B?"

"Not 'til after we were compromised," MacTavish says with a laugh. "Good thing we had that back up LZ planned. Good call, Flash."

"If there's one thing I know about you, it's your propensity for improv," I mutter.

"No problems getting the ACS?" Ghost asks.

MacTavish nods in Roach's direction and says, "Clockwork."

* * *

><p>Handing the ACS over to Shepherd and getting a debrief feels a little like having a paycheck taken away from you—not that the ACS was a paycheck. He just has this way of making our hard work feel unfulfilling. But maybe I'm the only one who feels that way.<p>

Debrief is short and sweet, and the only thing on my mind afterward as I lay in the barracks of the small forward base is a shower. Even on sat support and in the cold reaches of Kazakhstan, sweat and grime manage to find their way to me, it seems. Or maybe I'm just looking to clear my head. No gun room here, no quiet place for me to sit alone with my thoughts—or shoot up targets, which has become more of a favorite pastime in the last few days. Even in my dreams, the thought of killing Makarov leaves a sweet taste in my mouth.

"Flash," MacTavish says as he enters the room. He nods to me and sits down on his bunk, glancing at me all the while. The behavior has become more familiar in the last few days than I would like—it used to be the expression I got when he was trying to keep our relationship hidden. Lately, it was the face he wore whenever he was avoiding talking to me, avoiding saying to me things he really wanted to say. I've probably used the same expression on my own face more than once. How do you approach someone after the argument _we_ had?

"Nice work on the sat support," he says while leaning on his knees.

I look over to him and resist the urge to roll my eyes. "It's not like we really did much. But, sure, anytime," I say, and I look back up at the ceiling.

"Without that backup LZ, things might've gone south."

I do roll my eyes this time before I look back over to him and say, "You don't have to fish for topics, MacTavish."

"You're right," he says. "We haven't really talked since the other day."

"You think now is really the time?" I ask as I rock my feet back and forth on the end of the bed.

MacTavish adjusts his feet before he says, "We need to get it out of the way before it affects the mission."

"Fine," I say, tensing my legs to halt my feet. "So talk."

"I know you think we need to take care of Makarov," he says.

"Oh, are we talking about why or why not to take care of him?" I mutter. "I thought we were talking about how both of us acted like complete assholes."

"Fine. Let's talk about that, then," MacTavish says as he gets to his feet. I can see the furrow in his brows when I glance up to his face, and I quickly look back to the ceiling. "I shouldn't have said what I said, Elaine. I'm sorry. Happy now?"

I sit up, cross my legs, look up to MacTavish and say, "No, I'm not fucking happy. I don't want you to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then _why_ are you still upset?" he asks.

I look away from him and the furrow in my brows creates a shadow across my eyes. "Because… I… I just," I stammer before letting out an angry groan.

Ghost appears in the doorway behind MacTavish and says, "You two should come take a look at this."

MacTavish turns and says, "What is it," perhaps a little too snappish, but Ghost doesn't seem to notice.

Ghost disappears from the doorway, and MacTavish looks back at me. He sighs and gives me a hard stare before he turns and follows Ghost out of the room. I follow behind him, grateful for the intervention.

Ghost leads us to the mess a few doors down and points to the monitor hanging from one of the corners of the room. I look up to the monitor to see a news station airing with a female reporter and an airport in the background. "…gdeterakt initsiirovan chto, kazhetsya, amerikanskiĭ soldat sostoyalosʹ segodnya rano utrom."

"I don't speak Russian," I mutter irately to Ghost. "What is she saying?"

"That's Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow," Ghost says.

After listening for a few more seconds, MacTavish says, "Bloody hell."

"What?" I mutter again.

"A terrorist attack," MacTavish mutters. "A lot of Russian civilians dead." He looks to Ghost, and then he glances back to me, his eyes wide and sympathetic.

"Well?" I mutter, though I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to hear what he has to say.

"They're sayin' it was instigated by America."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The Russian in this chapter is the phonetic spelling of a translation I got from Google Translate. I apologize if it's inaccurate in any way as I do not speak Russian. Feel free to correct me.

Cheers~

HK


	18. Chapter 16: Takedown

"The Russians ain't gonna let this massacre go unanswered. It's gonna get bloody," Ghost says. MacTavish is standing between us, and Shepherd is across the table from us, smoking a cigar as usual.

"Too right, mate. Now, in the eyes of the world, they're the victims. No one's gonna say a word when the Russians club every American they can reach," MacTavish responds. My head knows that what he's saying is true, but every other part of me wants to argue against it, denial and all that. MacTavish and Ghost would never understand—neither of them are from the U.S. like I am. It isn't the place they called home for most of their lives. I knew people there. I lived with people there. They don't understand how it feels. To make matters worse, the only other one who would understand is Shepherd, but the calm expression on his face makes me wonder if he even cares.

"Makarov was one move ahead. Now he's left thousands of bodies at the feet of an American," Shepherd says.

MacTavish huffs out a breath and says, "We're the only ones who know it was Makarov's op. Our credibility died with Allen. We need proof."

"Follow the shell," Shepherd says, and he pushes a file across the table toward us. Not a single part of me wants to grab it, but MacTavish reaches forward and flips it open. Before he even has a chance to read any of it, Shepherd says, "Alejandro Rojas."

"You're joking," I say before I even register it. "Rojas? As in Minas Gerais? As in Rio? As in the guy we've been chasing for nearly three years? He supplied Makarov?"

"We've been careful until now," Shepherd says as he puffs out smoke. "We didn't want to be too aggressive in our hunt for Rojas, but now we have no choice."

"Has there been any word of him?" Ghost asks.

"We've kept eyes out in Rio. We don't know where Rojas is," Shepherd says, "but we've been keeping track of his right-hand man. We find him, we find Rojas."

MacTavish continues to read over the file as he mumbles, "One bullet to unleash the fury of a whole nation. Which means…"

"He's our ticket to Makarov."

"So," I mutter, "South America, then."

"If we're going to find Makarov, we need Rojas alive. Understood?"

"Roger that," Ghost and MacTavish say. My own confirmation echoes a few seconds after theirs, and Shepherd dismisses us.

"Well, this is all buggered up," Ghost mutters.

"We just have to find Rojas. If he leads us to Makarov, we can head this off," MacTavish says.

I stamp my next step on the ground and say, "No we can't." Ghost and MacTavish both stop and turn to face me. "You think Makarov is going to just roll over and die once we find him? He shook the waters. Even if we somehow manage to catch him without things going south, this goes beyond him now. God damn it, we should have just killed him. Fuck," I utter with the finishing touch of kicking the wall.

"Calm down," MacTavish starts.

I step up to him and say, "Don't tell me to calm down. You should have listened to me. Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I think I should," Ghost starts as he takes a step backwards and points down the hallway.

MacTavish nods and says, "Yeah, thanks, Ghost." I want to thank him too, but I don't want to feel like I'm on MacTavish's side, so I don't say anything and clench my jaw shut as Ghost turns and walks away.

Neither of us say anything at first, and the silence is prolonged as one of the operatives on board the sub passes between us. MacTavish's eyes follow him as he passes, and then he ushers me toward a side room with a touch to the shoulder—which I quickly shrug away. I head in the door first, and he comes in after me, closing the door most of way behind him. I keep my eyes on him even before he turns around again, and even then neither of us speaks.

I take a deep breath, and he looks down at me like a concerned friend, which makes me bite my cheeks a little. "You alright?" he asks me, and my brows cast a shadow over my eyes.

"What do you think?" I snap at him, but some part of me regrets it.

He looks at my right in the eyes. It takes everyone ounce of strength not to shrink away from the hard and determined look on his face. After a sigh, he says, "You were right after all."

"What?" I say, trying to dampen the rising volume in my voice.

"About Makarov," he says. "We should have followed the original plan. We should have taken care of him. We underestimated him."

My foot moves toward MacTavish before I even know it's happening, and the next thing I know I'm in his face. "No, John," I hiss. "You _over_estimated Shepherd. It's _his_ fault this happened. I can't believe he let this happen. I can't believe you didn't listen to me."

"I'm sorry," MacTavish says as he takes a step towards me and forces me to step back. "But we can't go back and change it. It's too late for that. We need to do what we can _now_," he says.

I sigh and blink a few times, and then I breathe deeply, letting my shoulders rise and fall excessively with my lungs to loosen up my muscles. "You're right," I say, glancing away from him. "I'm so—you're right."

MacTavish sighs again before he mutters, "We thought things were serious before… There's no going back now." He takes a step toward me and outstretches his hand, then pulls it back slightly. He blinks and reaches forward all the way, resting his hand on my shoulder so that his thumb can brush against my neck.

Part of me wants to knock his hand away—I don't know why I don't. I can feel him staring down at me, brows furrowed but eyes soft, and it makes me feel guilty somehow. A part of me wants to look up, to meet his eyes with a challenge in mine, but another part of me can't look him in the eye.

"When we get to Rio," MacTavish says, brushing a calloused finger just below my jaw, "I want you hitting the ground with me."

"No way I'm missing out on getting Rojas," I say, still chewing on a cheek. "Besides, you know I always have your back."

"You know that's not what I mean," MacTavish says, and my capacity to look away runs out. I look up at him and the furrow in my brow dissolves. I want to hit him, to knock him to the ground and give him a few fists to the face. At the same time, I have to resist the urge to lean forward and wrap my arms around him.

But I don't. I take a deep breath, swallow, and reach my arms around his back. He wraps his arms around my shoulders in return. "I know," I say. I step away from him. "For Price, right?"

MacTavish laughs sardonically and echoes, "For Price."

* * *

><p>"Anyone else tired of coming to Brazil? Is it just me?" Meat says from the back of the truck.<p>

"You're getting tired of doing your job, that's all," Royce says with a laugh.

"Just with you, pal," Meat says. "Maybe I just need to see a new face."

Royce huffs a laugh and says, "You know you'd be lost without me. Or dead."

"Will both of you shut the hell up?" I say, slapping my palm against the wheel. Apparently crashing a truck on an assignment is the short stick I drew for driving on this operation. Luckily, our job is only interference, so we're parked on the side of the road. I won't have to drive unless MacTavish's team can't head off Rojas' right-hand man. Ghost is sitting next to me, leaning against his door and peering out into the road.

"Still at your twelve. Ghost, the plates are a match," MacTavish says through the coms.

"Copy. Any sign of Rojas' right-hand man?" Ghost says.

"Negative. They've stopped twice already. No sign of him," MacTavish says. A few seconds pass, and he says, "Wait. They've stopped again. Standby."

"I hope they find him soon. So far this mission is boring as hell," Meat mutters.

I look back at Meat and say, "Can't you take this a little more seriously?"

"C'mon. How long have we been working together now? You know I can't take anything seriously," he says.

Royce glances out the window and mumbles, "Ain't _that_ the truth."

"Got a positive I.D.," MacTavish says over the coms, and I lean forward in my seat slightly and look to Ghost. "Whoever these guys are, they're not happy to see him." A few more seconds pass. "Ghost, we have a situation here! Get down, get down!" MacTavish shouts.

"Shit," I mutter, and I hear Meat echo the same words right after me.

"Ghost, our driver's dead! We're on foot! Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can," MacTavish shouts, and the four of us instantaneously open our car doors and hop out.

We start running, following behind Ghost as he says, "Roger, I'm on my way."

With the Hotel Rio just in front of us, we don't have to run far before we see Rojas' man book it across the street and to our left. When Ghost hits the intersection, he hangs a sharp left, and I see MacTavish and Roach running toward us. "He went into the alley," Ghost shouts as Roach runs up alongside him with MacTavish close behind.

"Non-lethal takedowns only! We need him alive," MacTavish shouts. Roach hauls ahead of us down the alley, takes a right, and faces the alleyway to the left, crouching down and aiming his gun. MacTavish says, "Roach, take the shot! Go for his leg!" Before MacTavish even finishes speaking, Roach pulls the trigger. We all round the corner behind him just in time to see the man stumble with an explosion of blood from his leg. The minute his face hits the ground, MacTavish says, "He's down."

MacTavish and Ghost head over to the guy and grab him by the arms. He struggles a little, though it looks more from the pain than from resistance. "Practically right into our trap," MacTavish says as they drag him further down the alley. Royce and Meat follow close behind him. I pat Roach on the shoulder as I pull up next to him, and we trail the others.

Royce and Meat open up the garage door for Ghost and MacTavish when we get to it. Ghost steps up into the room first, then MacTavish, and the two drag our captive over the step and into the room. I step into the room after them, pulling a chair over for the goon. Ghost and MacTavish seat him in the chair, tying him to it with a number of zip ties.

MacTavish gives the guy a kick while Ghost turns and grabs the home-made shock kit, a car battery and some jumper cables—courtesy of Ozone. MacTavish grabs the garage door and pulls it down until he hits one knee. "Roach, this is going to take some time. Go with Meat and Royce and check the favela for any sign of Rojas - that's where this guy was headed," he says as he looks out the door. Roach nods and readies his gun while Meat and Royce head off in front of him, and MacTavish shuts the door the rest of the way.

He turns and steps up to the man, who is clenching the arms of the chair tightly—I don't know if he's mad or just in pain. My guess would be both. He's taking harsh but controlled breaths that are making his chest heave up and down. MacTavish pulls out a cigar and lights it, which makes me shake my head a little. Either he was really craving one or he did it for effect—I have no idea.

"Where's Rojas?" MacTavish asks as he puffs out smoke. I lean against the table on the opposite side of the room and cross my arms.

Rojas' man glances to me and then to Ghost. He looks back at MacTavish and frowns. "Vai se foder," he says as he mock spits at the ground.

Ghost doesn't miss a beat and says, "Wrong answer." He reaches for the assistant with the jumper cables and hesitates before clipping him with them. The man only glares at Ghost, so Ghost shrugs and clips him momentarily. The man clenches his teeth and tenses, a grumble of pain escaping him.

"Bravo Six, be advised - we've engaged enemy militia at the lower village. Roach! I'm with you! Watch the rooftops! Go," I hear Royce say through the coms.

MacTavish looks to Ghost and nods, and Ghost steps away from the man. MacTavish steps forward and repeats, "Rojas. We need the location."

Rojas' assistant pants a few times, looks up at MacTavish, and says, "Fuck you," his accent not as thick as I would have expected—apparently the man speaks English.

Ghost doesn't say anything before he shocks him this time, and he holds the cables in place longer than before. The man's scream grows louder the longer he holds on, and he lets out a pained cry when Ghost releases him. He pants a few more times, but says nothing. "Maybe we should cut off his fingers," I suggest—a scare tactic, of course.

MacTavish is on the same page. He looks back to me with a smirk and says, "Not a bad idea." He pulls out his pocket knife and flips it open and closed a few times as he steps toward the guy.

The guy doesn't buy it. One of the corners of his mouth curls up a bit before he says, "Go ahead. Rojas'll do worse than that if he finds out I snitched on him."

MacTavish to Ghost and then back at me before he says, "Royce, gimme a sitrep, over."

"Lots of militia but no sign of Rojas over here, over," Royce shouts through the com, the sound of gunfire faint behind him.

"Copy that. Keep searching. Let me know if you see him. Out," MacTavish says, and he looks back to the assistant. "We're giving you a chance, here. Tell us where Rojas is," he says.

The man laughs, and a thought crosses my mind—this man would've done well in an intelligence agency. Ghost steps up and shocks him again, longer. The man's cries turn to whimpers, but when Ghost is done, he still doesn't say anything. He smiles despite the tears flowing down his cheeks.

My heart stops as Royce shouts through the coms. "Meat is down! I repeat, Meat is down!"

I try to swallow as a look over at MacTavish—unsuccessfully. His eyes are wide, but he keeps them hard as he continues to stare down at the assistant. He punches him across the face and shouts, "Give us Rojas and we'll let you live." Ghost doesn't wait before shocking him again—still he says nothing.

"Roach, I'm hit! I'm—" I hear Royce shout into the coms.

Something snaps in me then. I step up next to MacTavish and swipe his pocket knife out of his hands. I kick the chair over and listen to the guy grunt when his face hits the ground. There's a dried trail of blood down his leg, and blood is still flowing over that. I bite my cheek before I grab his leg and thrust the knife. He yells out when the knife enters the wound, and his yell turns to more cries as I twist the knife around relentlessly.

I pull the knife out and move around to his face where I grab his jaw and give him another punch to the face. "Maybe I'll cut out his tongue," I say, sticking the knife up to his mouth, "since he has no interest in using it."

"Think about what you're doing here, mate," MacTavish says to the man, crouching down beside me and looking him in the eye. "If Rojas is as smart as he plays it, you're on his blacklist already. If he gets away from us, we'll leave you to the dogs," he says. He stares up at MacTavish with wet eyes, but doesn't say anything, so I reach over to his leg with my left hand and claw into his wound with my fingers.

"Está bem, okay, okay!" the man yells, and I pull my fingers out of the wound to oblige. I stand and turn towards the wall as he says, "He knows you're here. He's at the top of the favela. He had an escape plotted out to the west."

"That's it," MacTavish says as he stands. He turns away for a moment, then turns back to the assistant with his M1911 in his hands and fires. The man doesn't have time to object before the bullet explodes through his skull and his eyes go dead.

"Good riddance," Ghost mumbles.

"Roach, we've got Rojas' location! He's heading west along the upper levels of the favela. We'll keep him from doubling back on our side—keep going and cut him off at the top! There's no time for backup. You're gonna have to do this on your own. Good luck. Out," MacTavish says as Ghost hoists the door open and hops down the step with his gun ready. MacTavish follows suit, and I'm right behind him.

"What about Meat and Royce?" I ask.

MacTavish looks back at me briefly and shakes his head. "They're gone," he says as he continues forward into the favela. "Let's make it count. Time to mourn later. We need to help Roach." With a deep breath and a quick clench of my eyes, I follow behind him, gun ready.

We head around the other side of the favela and are met with immediate resistance. I barely have time to dodge behind cover before they start firing. MacTavish and Ghost pivot into cover nearby, and MacTavish yells into his coms, "Roach, this is their territory and they know it well! Keep an eye open for ambush positions and check your corners!" He looks out of cover momentarily and says to us, "That's Rojas up there!"

MacTavish waves his hand forward and pivots out of cover. He books it to the next closest cover. Ghost mimics his movements on his side, and I do the same, ducking into a building and heading up the stairs. I poke my head out the door and hear MacTavish shout, "Look out!" Instinctively, I pull back into the house and dive away from the door. Mere moments later, the doorway explodes into an array of rubble and dust and leaves my ears ringing. "Flash, you alright?"

"Still in one piece," I shout into the coms with a hand rubbing my ear.

"He's firing another one! Get the hell out of there," MacTavish shouts, and I duck out a side door before an RPG sails through the window and explodes on the back wall of the house. "Ghost, at your ten," I hear MacTavish shout before I hear another explosion.

I duck out of cover and wait for a split second before a man peeks over the rooftop at my twelve. I fire on him, and as his body goes limp, I say, "Tango down."

At almost the same time, Ghost says, "Tango down," and I see another man with an RPG slip over the edge of the building and hit the ground somewhere below him with a loud thump. If he's lucky, he was dead before the fall.

"Roach, watch the rooftops! We've had a few close calls with RPGs and machine guns positioned up high! We're taking heavy fire from militia here, but I'm still tracking Rojas! He's gone into a building! Ghost, you see him?" MacTavish shouts as I move forward and up a narrow staircase.

"Roger that," Ghost says, "he's climbing onto a roof carrying a black duffel bag!" I poke my head around the corner of a house and look up, spotting a man with a duffle bag climbing over a balcony edge.

"Well that ought to slow him down," MacTavish chimes in. "Roach, we're keeping him from doubling back! Keep moving to intercept! Go! Go!"

"He's in my sights," Roach shouts. "He's headed back your way."

I move forward and dodge between a few houses. I enter one of the buildings and climb the stairs to the second floor where I step out onto the balcony and hop over it to the next one. It takes me a quick look down to notice that it's not the same balcony I saw Rojas leap. "MacTavish," I say through the coms, "I'm at Rojas' four on the second story balconies."

"Roger that, I'm at your nine," MacTavish says, and I look to my left and see him through one of the windows nearby. I keep booking it forward as I hear MacTavish say, "I've lost sight of him again! Ghost, talk to me!"

"I've got a got a visual on Rojas! He's cutting through the market," Ghost shouts.

"Roger that! I'll head for the rooftops and try to cut him off on the right! He's gonna have no choice but to head west," MacTavish replies.

I round a corner and come face to face with another one of the militia. Instinctively, I swing the butt of my gun at him and knock him down. I see another man standing behind him and barely manage to dive behind cover before he starts firing on me. I wait for him to empty most of his mag before I lean out and shoot him with my M1911. He falls to the ground with a grunt and a thud, and I pivot out of cover and step over his body to the doorway. I step outside just in time to get fired on by a machine gunner. I roll across the street and slide behind the corner of a house just outside of his line of sight.

"MacTavish, be advised," I shout. "More militia on the rooftops at your twelve armed with machine guns."

"Roger that," MacTavish says. I lean out of cover momentarily and fire on one of the gunners. I miss with the first few shots but hit him with the next. At the same time, I see the other gunner tumble off the roof, and MacTavish says, "Tangos down, move up."

I move forward as Ghost says into the coms, "I'm taking a lot of fire from the militia, I don't think I can track him through the market! I'm gonna have to find another way around!"

I run into MacTavish after passing by two more houses. He doesn't chance a look at me as he continues running and says, "This way."

I follow him through one of the buildings and out onto the rooftops of the market, which is full of civilians screaming and running for cover. We skip from rooftop to rooftop in and all-too-familiar fashion and MacTavish says through the coms, to me as much as to Ghost, "Do you have a visual?"

"Be advised, I'm about half a click east of the market, I can see Rojas running across the rooftops on my right side," Ghost shouts.

The rooftop in front of us comes to an end. MacTavish leaps off to the right and continues on the rooftops while I leap down and continue on the ground. "Roger that! Roach! We're still corralling him closer to your side of the hill! Keep an eye open for Rojas! He's making his way across the rooftops," MacTavish says.

"Roger that," Roach says.

Ghost's voice comes through the coms, "Sir, I've got Rojas in my sights! We can go for a clean leg shot! We can end it here!"

"Negative! We can't risk it! Do not engage," MacTavish shouts.

"Bollocks! Roger that," Ghost shouts.

"Flash, tangos at your twelve," he says, and my body reacts instantly, ducking behind the crates in a kiosk nearby. Splinters of wood burst over my head, along with the guts of some fruit. I hear a few more shots echo after the rain of bullets subsides, and MacTavish says, "You're clear! Keep going, keep going!"

I run out of cover and continue pushing forward, hearing some gunfire from Ghost's direction. The market comes to an end ahead of us, and I slip into the alleyway between the houses in front of me. I spot MacTavish leap from the rooftops to the balconies of the housing a bit to my right. "Ghost he's going for that motorcycle," he says, and I come out of the alleyway with a clear path between me and Rojas. I pump my legs harder, hoping to reach him before he gets away. He glances back momentarily and sees me heading toward him and books it in another direction as MacTavish says, "We've got eyes on Rojas—wait! Shite! He's headed back towards you."

"I've got another clear leg shot," Ghost shouts as Rojas slips left between an alleyway and out of my sights.

"Negative! Not unless you wanna carry him back out with all this militia breathing down your neck! I need him unharmed," MacTavish shouts. I slip through two buildings where I encounter another hostile. I use the momentum of my footing to swing the butt of my gun again and knock him out cold without breaking my step. I emerge on the other side of the house and head up another narrow staircase as MacTavish says, "Nice! He's breaking to the right again! I'm going far right!"

When I hit the top of the stairs, I see Rojas cross to the right in front of me and head into one of the buildings. "MacTavish," I shout, "he's headed your way!"

"He went up the stairs," Ghost shouts as he pulls up next to me. The two of us head forward, through a pathway, and up another set of stairs. I look up to the balconies and see Rojas double back and hop to a rooftop at our nine. Ghost also sees it, and after a sharp turn to the left he says, "He's gonna get away!"

"No he's not," MacTavish says, and seconds later I hear the shattering of glass. As Ghost and I emerge from another narrow pathway, the car beside us smashes. I look over and aim my gun, despite the fact that Rojas is pinned between MacTavish and the vehicle. Roach approaches us from the opposite direction, his gun also trained on Rojas. I step over to him and tap him on the shoulder to which he responds with a nod—a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. "Frontrunner, this is Bravo Six. We've got the package. I repeat we have got the package," MacTavish says.

Ghost lower his gun and lifts his hand to his earpiece as he says, "Command, ready for dustoff. Send the chopper. Coordinates to fol—" He pauses momentarily, and a furrow appears between his brows. "Bollocks! The skies are clear! Send the chopper now," he shouts. Another few seconds go by, and he sighs irately before he says, "Command's got their head up their arse. We're on our own."

"Roach, Flash," says MacTavish, not taking his eyes off of Rojas, "secure the perimeter. The militia'll be back. Ghost, come with me. It's time to get some answers."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I realize there is a time discrepancy between _No Russian _and _Cliffhanger _in my story that does not quite match the game. It is intentional.

Once again, I used the internet to translate to the Portuguese in this chapter, so I apologize if it is inaccurate. It's much less reliable using the internet to look up colloquialisms than it is to translate complete sentences—if they are incorrect, do not hesitate to let me know.

HK


	19. Chapter 17: The Hornet's Nest

"You aren't gonna go inside and help with the interrogation?" Roach asks me as he paces idly next to me while still keeping his eyes trained on our surroundings.

I glance to him fleetingly, but I don't look him in the eye. "I'm guessing MacTavish didn't want to see me lose it again," I mutter. "I didn't exactly keep my cool last time. Besides, we need eyes out here. Rojas' militia will be back."

"Yeah," Roach mutters ad he paces away from me. "Why do you think we haven't seen anyone?"

"They might not know where we are," I say. "Or maybe they're holding back because they know we have Rojas. I don't know. I'm betting we'll run into them when we move for extraction."

"I hate extractions where we're running for our lives," Roach mumbles, his voice edgy, like he's trying to lighten the mood. I laugh a little in response to make him feel better, and maybe to make myself feel better too. The whole situation reminds me of Meat, always cracking jokes at the worst possible moments to calm people down, and Royce, always responding with smartass remarks to show him that we're listening and we're okay. I smile at the thought of it, but my lips flip after a few seconds. I rub my lips together and bite my cheeks while blinking rapidly to fight off tears, all the while thinking to myself, _Now's not the time. Now's not the time._

It takes less time than expected to get control of myself—it's amazing how peril can clear your head. I glance over to Roach, and my heart melts when I see the look on his face. It's a look I could picture on my own face. Dark circles around his eyes, lower jaw bucked forward, brows drawn, and his eyes—they look as clear as crystal, but sad and downcast even as they scan the surrounding area with hawk like persistence. For the first time since I've known him, he looks green, like he's fresh out of basic, and I know I'm not the only one suffering from the loss of Meat and Royce.

"Roach," I say, and then I take a deep breath and exhale it sharply. "Are you… How are you doing?"

He looks over to me, and from the front I can tell the glisten in his eyes is from held back tears. He blinks them away as if aware of my scrutiny and looks back onto the favela. "I'm… I'm a little…shaken up, I guess," he says, and his honesty makes me feel calm somehow.

I think back to my pathetic display in the gun room days ago, and I turn around and walk to the opposite corner of the balcony. I glance at him over my shoulder as I say, "You don't have to say more. But you can… If you want to, you know."

"I just can't believe they're gone," he says in a small voice. I hear a jingle and turn around to see him pulling two sets of dog tags out of his pocket.

"You," I start as I step over to him, "you grabbed their tags."

"Wish I could've grabbed more than that," he mumbles, and I take his meaning. I rest a hand on his shoulder momentarily but don't say anything—what more is there to say?

My hand snaps up at the sound of a gunshot. Roach and I both look to each other, and then turn to head inside the building. When we get inside, the first thing I see is Rojas lying face down on the ground in a pool of blood. I look over to MacTavish, who is sticking his M1911 in its holster, and say, "Got what we needed?"

MacTavish barely glances at me before he kicks the chair in the center of the room and hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his pants. "He didn't have any information on Makarov—no locations, no names, nothing," he says as he looks over. "Ghost, contact someone for extraction."

"I assume you got something out of him, or you wouldn't have shot the guy," I say, perhaps a little too adamantly. It's not as if I feel sorry for the guy by any measure. He deserved what he got. Better to put a stop to his weapons dealing here. But the idea of having no leads…

"He said something about a prisoner," MacTavish responds while Ghost faces the corner of the wall and fiddles with his equipment. "Said he heard Makarov mention something about a prisoner six-two-seven in a gulag near Petropavlovsk, Russia. Apparently Makarov said something about paying his 'old friend six-two-seven a visit' and he got the impression that they weren't 'old friends' at all. Ghost, talk to me," says MacTavish.

"I can't get anyone on the horn," Ghost says. "Sats are either cut off or busy."

"All of 'em?" MacTavish asks. Ghost nods and MacTavish mumbles, "The hell is going on up there?"

He looks over to me, but I pull out my laptop before he has a chance to say anything. I pull up a newsfeed, and the minute it downloads, I hear, "War has been brought to the shores of the United States." My heart stops before I even realize it. My pulse quickens and then evens out as MacTavish leans over next to me with a hand on my shoulder. I don't know if he realizes how much it calms me down, but it does.

We continue watching the feed, Roach and Ghost moving over to peek over our shoulders. Countless footage flashes through of Russian air troops moving in on the east coast and evacuation of rural neighborhoods. _Shit_, I think to myself, and I can tell by the quivering in my breathing that I said it aloud, but I don't care.

"The Russians must've copied the ACS module. Got the key to every lock in America," MacTavish mutters, a twinge of remorse in his voice.

"And they're killing a thousand Americans for every dead civilian in Moscow. Looks like we're all out of friends," Ghost says as he stands up straight and steps back. Roach and MacTavish follow suit, but I don't move and keep my eyes on the footage.

"Flash," I hear MacTavish say. I don't turn to face him, but somehow he knows that I heard him. "C'mon," he says.

I look over at him and shut my open jaw as I nod slightly. "Right," I mutter. "Later." He nods back, and I close the newsfeed and pack the laptop up.

"I know a guy," MacTavish says as he checks his weapons and starts walking down the stairs. "Let's find a payphone. They still exist?" The rest of us follow behind him, checking our weapons as well.

"We may have to head back toward the city," Ghost says. "No guarantees we won't run into the militia on the way."

"No time to worry about that. We need to get the hell out of here," MacTavish says as he knocks the front door open with the slap of his palm.

"And then what?" Roach asks. "We go after that guy in the gulag?"

"It's all we got. If this con's the bait to catch that psychopath, let's hang him from a tree," says MacTavish, and he breaks into a weak jog. The rest of us speed up to keep up with him, and the next thing we know we're on our way back down the favela.

We stay on the streets the whole time—no more running across rooftops or balconies. The favela feels like a ghost town, no civilians or hostiles anywhere in sight aside from dead bodies—MacTavish reaches down to check a few of them for any usable supplies as we pass, but doesn't come across much—which make it both a breeze and a pain to move through. Any enemy movement and we'd probably hear it. But it works the other way, too.

When we hit some flat ground to the west of the favela, we stop running across dead bodies, but there are still no civilians. "MacTavish," I mutter to him, wary of my corners, "does this feel wrong to you?"

"It will if we don't run into civvies soon," MacTavish says in a low voice.

"Captain, over there," Roach mutters with a point of his finger. We all look over, and lo and behold there is a single payphone just down the street from us.

"You're gonna need a phone card," Ghost says as he watches our six.

"Way ahead of you," MacTavish says as he pulls a blood-stained card from his pocket—he must have grabbed it while he was checking bodies. "Flash, pull up a map. We need exfil coordinates." I nod and pull my laptop back out.

With a few keystrokes, I pull up a map of the area and trace our route from where we started. "We're on this side of the favela," I say, pointing to our current location while MacTavish leans over my shoulder.

"Alright, we'll exfil here," he says as he points to a part of the favela overhanging the side of the crag. He moves over to the payphone like water and swipes the time card before he picks up the phone. He starts dialing a number while I pack up my gear again and recheck my weapons.

"MacTavish," Ghost mutters, just up the hill from us. "We've got a problem," he says just before he ducks down and dodges a few shots. Before my body knows what's it's doing, I head for Ghost's position and duck behind cover nearby. Roach is right behind me and takes a position forward.

"Hold them off," MacTavish shouts, sounding more irritated than worried.

"There are only a few," I say. "Take 'em out." I lean out of cover and fire on the hostiles—I don't hit anyone. Roach leans out of cover and fires, hitting two guys in the process, and Ghost also takes out two targets.

From behind me, I hear MacTavish say, "Nikolai. You up for some action?" He continues talking to the man as I lean out of cover and continue firing on the hostiles, taking down one and injuring another in the process. When I duck back into cover, MacTavish slams the phone back on the hook and readies his gun. As he approaches us, he says, "It's our lucky day. He's close by."

As he nears cover, a shot ricochets near his head, causing him to duck down despite the cover in front of him. Ghost and I both turn to see if he's okay, but my eyes fall on something else after I turn my head. A string of profanity escapes my lips, and an instant later Ghost says, "Sir, the militia's closing in. Almost two hundred of them, front and back."

"We're gonna have to fight our way to the LZ. Let's go," MacTavish shouts. Roach is the first one to respond to his words, leaping over cover and sprinting forward to dodge behind the building. "On the left," MacTavish shouts as he moves forward and takes Roach's old cover. Ghost turns to the left and starts shooting at the balcony above a shed where two hostiles are waiting. As he takes the first one down, I run forward and join Roach by the building. He heads to the right corner of the building while I take over the left.

"Soap," a voice says over the coms—male, moderate Russian accent. "Do you copy?"

"We've got ya, Nikolai," MacTavish says. "We're at the top level of the favela surrounded by militia! Don't keep us waiting."

"Okay, my friend, I am on the way," Nikolai exclaims as MacTavish leans out of cover and fires on some hostiles at our twelve. As Ghost takes out the second tango on the left balcony, he moves forward behind some cover just underneath it.

"Everyone, get ready," MacTavish says as he moves behind the house to cover Roach on the right side. "Lock and load."

I lean out of cover to start firing at hostiles on the rooftops across the streets. I hit one in the leg, and he tips over the side of the building and hits the ground. He's probably still alive—the drop isn't long enough to kill him—but at least he's out of the action. As Roach says, "Right clear," I move around the side of the building and behind the low wall in front of it. I see Roach move up next to me and start firing at the rooftops.

"Technical," Ghost shouts as a truck drives up the street and pulls to a stop. I barely duck my head behind cover as the man on the .50 in the back of the truck starts firing on us. Small chunks of brick and stone chip off over my head where his shots hit the corner of the wall. Down to the left of the house, I see Ghost reload and come halfway out of cover to fire on the technical. "Man down," Ghost mutters seconds later. I peek over the wall to see another man scrambling for the .50, and then Ghost says, "Frag out," and a grenade goes sailing through the air into the bed of the truck. The man has only seconds to look down and see it before it blows.

The minute I hear it, I come back out of cover and continue firing at the rooftops, taking out another two tangos. Roach—or maybe MacTavish—takes out a third person who is running forward on the rooftops from behind while Ghost and I fire on more hostiles heading up the street behind the truck. As soon as the gunfire thins out, MacTavish says, "Let's move!"

Ghost heads forward while Roach and I jump the wall. MacTavish pulls up beside us, and the four of us head down the street where a few tangos fire on us. Roach and I take them down quickly, and the four of us make a right. MacTavish says, "Watch the buildings! Flash, take the buildings on the left. Roach, you handle the right side. Ghost, with me down the center." I take a moment to nod before I head straight across the street and up some stairs.

I make a sharp right and I'm immediately met with a hostile crouching behind a balcony wall with his back to me. He barely has time to turn around before I pull out my pistol and fire at him. I don't wait for his body to slump down before heading into the building next to me. Another enemy is inside by the window firing down onto the street. I step up behind him and pull out my knife, reach around his neck, and slit his throat.

I have only seconds to react as a man heads through the door next to me and tries to take me from behind. He reaches an arm around my head, but I duck down before he can catch me in a hold and swing a leg around to slam him in the back of the knee. I continue to turn as I aim my pistol at him and pull the trigger. Without taking a moment to rest, I head through the door onto the next balcony.

Before continuing forward, I look down on the street to see MacTavish and Ghost moving up at roughly the same speed I am, and beyond that Roach is taking down a hostile on the balcony opposite me. He makes eye contact with me. I give him a slight nod, and we both head into the next room. I take out the unsuspecting tangos crouched by the window and peeking around the next threshold with ease, and when I head out the next door, the only thing before me is another staircase.

I spot MacTavish and Ghost to my right as well as Roach heading out of the buildings and back onto the street. "Ghost, Flash, take the left alley. Roach, with me," MacTavish says, and Ghost heads over to meet me at the bottom of the stairs. I take a left when I hit the bottom, and the minute I turn, Ghost shoots from beside me. Seconds later, the door to the house in front of us slips all the way open as a man stumbles out onto his face.

"I owe you one," I say to Ghost as he pats me on the shoulder. We move up and dodge behind the wall. I crouch to the ground and peek around the corner, and Ghost stands behind me to shoot over my head. Two more tangos spill out from behind cover and start firing on us. Ghost takes the one on the left while I take the one on the right, and without missing a beat the two of us move forward and take the cover where the enemies previously were.

We look out onto the main road to see several tangos lined up and firing on MacTavish and Roach. With one catch of the eyes, Ghost and I nod and start firing on the enemy. The first five or six go down easily until the rest of them realize we're in the alley and fall back. "Moving to your twelve," MacTavish says as he and Roach move forward into our field of vision. Ghost and I pivot around our cover and move to the exit of the alley.

Before we emerge, MacTavish shouts, "We got another technical! Take it out!"

I crouch by cover in front of Ghost again, and while he leans around and fires on the technical, I cook a grenade. Seconds later, I lean out and throw, shouting, "Frag out!" My throw isn't as stylish and precise as Ghost's was, but it lands next to the truck and does its job, blowing the bed of the truck apart and sending bodies flying as they become pin cushions for shrapnel.

"We've gotta get to the helicopter," MacTavish says as the four of us move forward. "Head through the gate to the market! Move!" We take a left once we're at the truck and book it forward, Roach and I hanging toward the left wall while MacTavish and Ghost hang toward the right.

The moment we hit the market, bullets starts raining toward us again, and we all dodge quickly behind the nearest cover, poking out only when we have clear shots on the enemy. They're more scattered here and easier to take out. As the four of us take out targets with precision and finesse and move forward like we rehearsed all of it beforehand, I think this small portion has been the easiest part of this mission.

When we hit the end of the market, I hear the sound of a helo somewhere nearby. A quick look up, and I see a Pave Low hovering a ways above the favela. MacTavish must have his eyes on it too as he says, "There's Nikolai's Pave Low! Let's go! Nikolai! ETA twenty seconds! Be ready for immediate dustoff!"

"That may not be fast enough," Nikolai says. "I see more militia closing in on the market!" Almost as if he jinxed it, what seems like an infinite amount of fire starts coming from across the small soccer field in front of us.

"Pick up the pace! Let's go," MacTavish shouts as he moves ahead of us and ducks behind a low wall. I step out to move up next to him, but a massive amount of fire comes my way and forces me back behind cover.

"It's too hot! We will not survive this landing," Nikolai shouts, and I bite down on my cheeks hard enough to draw blood.

"Nikolai wave off, wave off! We'll meet you at the secondary LZ instead! Go," MacTavish shouts. I take a deep breath before pivoting out of cover right after Ghost and start firing on enemies as I move toward the low wall. Once there, I join Ghost and MacTavish in firing at the enemies on the rooftops. Roach comes up behind us and joins our fire seconds later.

The moment the gunfire thins out, MacTavish jumps the wall, with Ghost almost immediately after him, and runs toward the buildings opposite us. I follow suit, and Roach is right behind me. When MacTavish hits the opposite wall, he plants a foot on a metal sheet propped up against the wall and pulls himself up to the roof. Ghost follows right behind him. I pause and take a deep breath before getting a running start at it. My foot plants on the metal sheet and I flex my toes to help push off.

A firm grasp on the roof with both of my hands is as far as I get. I struggle for a few seconds to lift my body up and over, but it isn't long at all before Ghost and MacTavish each grab a hand and pull me up. As soon as my feet hit the roof, Roach comes up behind me, pulling himself most of the way up before I offer out a hand and help him the rest of the way. Once his feet are on the ground, the four of us start hauling ass across the rooftops.

None of us are even firing as we book it across the roofs, and it reminds me a little too much of the mission in Minas Gerais. I hear Nikolai say, "My friend, from up here, it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you!"

An ironic laugh escapes me in between my heavy breathing as MacTavish says, "Tell me something I don't know! Just get ready to pick us up!"

"We're running out of rooftop," Ghost shouts. I look ahead to see the gap ahead of us and curse under my breath while Nikolai's Pave Low pulls down next to the rooftop.

I don't know how he does it, but MacTavish pulls optimism out of the air and shouts, "We can make it! Go, go, go!" MacTavish hits the edge first and jumps for it, sailing through the air and landing on the other side with both feet. I have a fleeting thought that gets me wondering whether or not he would have made it if he hadn't been so confident.

Ghost hits the end next, jumping for all he's worth and landing on a foot and a knee. I cringe when his knee connects to the ground, and the only thing I can think of is the breaking history of my leg. I really hope this doesn't stress it too much. I think back to drills and my practice at landing on my left leg. I let my body take over, leap off the roof with my right foot, and set my left foot forward to absorb the first impact. When I hit, my knees buckle instantly, and I fall forward onto my hands, slicing one open on a loose screw sticking out of the floor—or the roof, rather. I curse under my breath, but the sound of gunfire is more than enough to take my mind right off the pain. I get to my feet quickly and turn around to make sure Roach makes it.

Roach is already sailing through the air when I see him, and even before he nears us, I can tell his jump is a little short. Half of his right foot hits the roof, and when his knee bends to absorb his weight, his foot slips off the edge and sends him over the side. His fingers catch the edge, and MacTavish turns to grab his hands. Just as his fingers brush Roach's knuckles, his hands slip, and he falls over the edge. "Roach!" MacTavish shouts.

I step up to the edge to see Roach knocked out below us while Ghost nervously hangs back by the Pave Low. "We can't leave him," I shout to MacTavish.

"No way," he says. "Roach! C'mon. Roach!" Roach starts to squirm around, and a breath I didn't know I was holding escapes me. MacTavish leans forward in anticipation and yells," Roach!" MacTavish waves a hand to Ghost and I, and Ghost leaps onto the helo. I follow behind him reluctantly as MacTavish shouts again. "Roach! Roach! Wake up!" He stands and leaps onto the Pave Low after us, and Nikolai lifts it high enough into the air so that we can see Roach below us.

"Roach," Ghost says as he looks further into the favela. "We can see them from the chopper! They're coming for you, dozens of 'em!"

"Roach! There's too many of them! Get the hell out of there and find a way to the rooftops! Move! Run for it! Get to the rooftops," MacTavish shouts. Roach starts booking it before MacTavish even finishes speaking and disappears into some houses. "Nikolai," MacTavish says, "keep circling the area. We're not leaving without Roach."

"You've got it, my friend," Nikolai says as the helo starts to drift in the direction Roach ran. As I hear gunfire below us, I start biting the knuckles of my free—and bloody— hand, the other propped on the side of the helo for support.

"Roach, we're circling the area but I can't see you! You've got to get to the rooftops," MacTavish shouts into the coms. I scan the alleyways as carefully as I can, but see nothing aside from militia or a few civilians evacuating their houses or ducking into them.

Seconds later, Roach comes out onto a balcony just above some lower rooftops, and MacTavish says, "Roach! I see you! Jump down to the rooftops and meet us south of your position! Go!" Roach follows his instructions quickly, leaping down to the rooftops and booking it across the houses, gunfire ricocheting all around him all the while.

"Gas is very low," Nikolai shouts from the front of the chopper. "I must leave in thirty seconds!"

"Roach! We're running on fumes here! You got thirty seconds! Run! Left! Turn left and jump down! Come on," MacTavish yells. Roach follows each direction to the letter, hanging a left and jumping without even seeing where he is going. He lands hard, dropping to one knee, but keeps going.

MacTavish lowers a roped ladder as Nikolai lowers the chopper to more or less line up with a balcony just below us, sending Roach out of my sight. Seconds later, I hear a crash and see him stumbling across the room of the house next to us. As soon as he regains his footing, he hauls ass across the room and MacTavish says, "Jump for it!" When Roach's foot hit the edge of the balcony, he leaps off and outstretches his arms. He grabs the ladder with a hand and slams against it with his body. It rocks back and forth with the force from his landing.

Roach plants his feet on the ladder and reaches an arm around to get a better grip, and MacTavish says, "Nikolai! We got him! Get us out of here!"

"Where to, my friend?" Nikolai asks.

"Just get us to the sub," MacTavish says as Roach slowly climbs the ladder. When he gets close enough to the top, both MacTavish and I lean down, grasp his arms, and pull him up. Ghost pulls the ladder up while Roach collapses in a seat. The rest of us join him quickly, and, with the exception of our labored breathing, the cabin goes silent.

I glance out the door at the favela as it gets smaller and smaller the further away from it we pull. As my breaths calm down and the adrenaline wears off from my system, I lean my head back against my chair. Roach does the same while Ghost and MacTavish both lean forward onto their knees.

No smiles, no laughs this time. No jokes, no pats on the back, no congratulations. My mind slows down. Despite the danger we faced, how hard we pushed ourselves, how much we gave up, I focus on the city with tunneled vision that fills me with longing, with nostalgia, with melancholy. Leaving feels wrong, like a betrayal, like I'm leaving a piece of myself back there that I'll never see again.

And it doesn't take me long to acknowledge that I am—we all are. Meat is gone. Meat. Silly Meat. Jokester Meat. Can't ever take anything seriously Meat. And Royce is gone too. Royce the mediator. Royce the devil's advocate. Royce the knows how to keep Meat from taking his jokes too far. Meat and Royce, the two peas in a pod. Royce and Meat, two valuable and irreplaceable soldiers of TF-141. Meat and Royce, two brothers in our family. Royce. Meat.

_Goodbye_, I think as I stare at the now-distant city, or maybe I say it, but it doesn't matter. This time, I will remember their names.

I will _always_ remember their names.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I came across a major discrepancy while doing research for this chapter—if the times stamps at the beginning of the levels are to believed, Nikolai made it to Rio in, like, fifteen minutes since roughly an hour passed between the beginning of _Takedown_ and the beginning of_ The Hornet's Nest_. I know Nikolai is good and all, but surely he's not _that_ good, eh? Unless he was already nearby when MacTavish called, it would have taken him a lot longer than 15 minutes to get there, and certainly over a day if he was in Russia or India. While I'm sure we could come up with some other explanation that makes sense, seems to me this was a developer oversight. I thought that was pretty funny, so I had to share it with you guys.

By the way, I found a theme for Flash: _Soldier_ by The Goo Goo Dolls. Give it a listen—it really applies to her character, especially concerning the dark road she's going to be walking in the future.

Cheers~

HK


	20. Chapter 18: The Only Easy Day

"Seems we're headed the wrong direction, sir," MacTavish says in our next briefing. "Shouldn't we be coming back to the fight?"

Shepherd, sucking on a cigar, of course, says, "Plenty of fight to go around MacTavish." He fiddles with some commands on the computer as he says, "Glad you made it out of South America."

I want to believe in his sincerity, but old habits die hard, I guess. I'm not mad at him for not sending his Shadow Company operators to pick us up, and Nikolai definitely delivered. The attack on the east coast took everyone off guard, and they needed all the help they could get. They still do, and I have to agree with MacTavish when he questions Shepherd about our destination.

"You're meetin' up with the 6th Fleet, leading the counterstrike," Shepherd says as he pulls up a map on screen. It zeroes in on the gulag in Petropavlovsk, Russia, then moves offshore as Shepherd explains, "Prisoner Six-Two-Seven. We believe that's who Makarov's got the mad-on for, but we can't get to him." As the map zeroes in offshore, four oilrigs come into view.

"Oilrigs, sir?" MacTavish asks.

"The Russians are using them as SAM sites. Oil workers are human shields so we can't just blow up the rigs wholesale. And this one is the least defended." Shepherd puffs out more cigar smoke and stares at us blankly before he says, "Boys, I know I'm sending you into the meat grinder in this one..."

"They're defending it, so it means we want it. Especially if it gets us to Six-Two-Seven," MacTavish says with a hard look. The same look has been plastered on his face for hours, but I haven't talked to him about it. Ghost has a similar expression. Roach has had the same expression, too, and Archer and Worm and Toad and Ozone and Scarecrow. I'm probably wearing it too. Our family got a little bit smaller, and all of us are feeling it. But there hasn't been time to grieve, and there won't be for a while yet.

"You won't be working alone on this one," Shepherd says as he snuffs his cigar in the ashtray that's always in the middle of the table. "You'll have Navy and Marine forces backing you up."

"Good," MacTavish responds. "Let's give 'em a show."

* * *

><p>"U.S.S. Chicago Actual to dry-dock shelter, we have a go."<p>

"SDV hangar flooded, full pressure."

"Begin deployment."

Everything is quiet underwater. It's the first quiet I've had since Brazil, the first moment I've really had to collect my thoughts, but my mind can't get past the wall that I put in place when—I don't know when it happened. Maybe it was when we were interrogating Rojas' man. Maybe it was when we were running for our lives trying to get extracted. Maybe it was when we pulled away from Rio in Nikolai's chopper. It was only yesterday, but here, under the water, it all feels so far away.

"Team One SDV is away," the dry dock operator says.

"Hotel Six, bearing zero one-niner," says the U.S.S. Chicago operator.

Ghost and I pull up next to MacTavish and Roach. I catch eyes with Roach as we pass and give him a thumbs up. He returns the gesture, and we both look forward to the oil rig in front of us. We release the SDVs as we pull up next to the columns and swim the rest of the distance. When we're directly underneath, we surface, our heads coming up beneath a grated floor.

The sound of Russian conversation spills into my ears, and we all look up at the two men above our heads simultaneously. MacTavish looks over to Roach and signals up with his finger. Roach moves underwater momentarily to surface a few meters away at the edge of the grating. I hear MacTavish say, "In position. On your go," and Roach lifts himself partway out of the water. There are two splashes as MacTavish and Roach pull the men into the water. I see two small red clouds underneath the surface before they reemerge from the water, and then we all pull ourselves out.

As we take off our swim gear, Ghost mutters, "They'll know we're here eventually. We need to move fast."

MacTavish is the first to get his gear off. As he stands he says, "Two hostiles down in section One-Alpha. Moving up to section Two."

"Roger that, Hotel Six," the operative responds.

"Remember, support is coming in behind us," MacTavish says as he readies his weapon. "We need to clear all decks."

"Roger that," Roach says as he stands and readies his weapon.

Ghost and I stand up a few seconds later and move up behind them. We move toward a staircase and follow MacTavish up the first flight as MacTavish says, "Keep it tight people. Ready weapons. Move up."

We head up the second set of steps, and Ghost says, "Got a visual by the railing." I glance up to the railing as our pace up the stairs slows down and spot a man leaning over smoking a cigarette. There's no one else around him. He's alone.

"Free to engage," MacTavish says, and then he adds, "Suppressed weapons only."

Roach is the first one to respond, and a cloud of blood explodes around the man's head. Before he has a chance to hit the ground, Ghost says, "We're clear." My eyes follow the man's cigarette as it falls through the grating and down below until Ghost gives me a nudge to move up, and I follow Roach and MacTavish the rest of the way up the stairs until we hit a set of doors.

"Civilian hostages at your position, watch your fire," the operative says over the coms.

"Roger that," MacTavish says. "Moving to breach." He signals Roach to set the charge on the door and signals Ghost and me to get their backs on either side. I move up behind Roach while Ghost moves up behind MacTavish. Roach pulls the charge out of his pack with deft hands and plants it on the door, and I remember Royce doing the same thing on so many missions before.

MacTavish nods to Roach, and Roach nods back. The moment the charges explode, Roach pivots around onto his knees while I stay on my feet with my weapon trained over the top of his head. The hostiles are caught off guard and start firing from the hip before they're even facing us completely. We each take out one of the four hostiles in the room like clockwork. Blood splatters across a few of the seated hostages, and they're all shaking by the time the encounter is over—if they weren't already.

"We're clear. Hostages secured in section Two-Echo," MacTavish mutters as he pats the hostages on their shoulders on his way by. We follow him to head through the next set of doors where another staircase lays in wait for us.

"Roger that Hotel Six, Team 2 will secure and evac, continue your search topside," the operator says.

"Okay," MacTavish says. "We're advancing to Deck Two."

"Copy," says the operator. "Be advised: Enemy helo patrolling the perimeter. Keep a low profile, Hotel Six."

"Roger that," MacTavish says as our feet hit the second deck. The place is littered with metal beams and cargo crates which make me feel better about the low railing around the sides. When MacTavish says, "Enemy helo, get out of sight," I dive behind some cover next to Roach and find another reason to be thankful for all the shit lying around. When the chopper passes by and my hearing returns to me, MacTavish says, "Clear. Go."

We all rise at the same time and continue moving along the deck until we come across another set of doors. My feet stop below me as I hear in my ears, "Hotel Six, more hostages at your position."

"Copy that," MacTavish says. He signals around the corner to Ghost and me, and we both nod and follow the direction of his point to another set of doors on the other side of the room.

"In position," Ghost says once we're there.

I pull charges out of my pack, and when MacTavish says, "Set the charges," I plant them on the door. With a glance to Ghost, I plant myself next to the door and ready my weapon. "Breach," MacTavish says into the coms, and at the push of a button, the charges blow the doors.

I pivot in and flex my finger, ready to shoot at whatever hostiles I see, but stop when I spot the barrel up against the head of one of the hostages. The tango's attention is focused on MacTavish and Roach, so I take the opportunity to move forward and pull my combat knife from my vest. Ghost takes out one hostile making his way toward me from my left while I move. I reach the tango in two strides and don't pause before I reach my left arm across his face and swing it backwards. I disarm him with my right hand as his head cocks back and then twist and slash him across the throat with my blade.

"Damn, Flash," Roach mutters as he steps into the room. "I thought I was gonna hit you." It isn't until then I notice the encounter is over, and I slip my combat knife back into its sheath while reaching for the grip of my gun.

"I'm glad you didn't," I mutter with a curl at the corner of my mouth.

"Control," MacTavish mutters as he walks past us without a second glance. He pats a few hostages on the shoulder and pays special attention to the hostage seated next to me. He's spattered with a bit of blood, but it's not his—just collateral damage from my scuffle. "All deck two hostages secured," MacTavish mutters.

"Copy that," a voice comes in through the coms. "Team two coming in at your six," it says, and a group of soldiers comes walking through the door. They start untying and evacuating the hostages.

As the last man leaves the room, a click of static fills the room followed by a string of Russian that I can't understand. I turn my head to catch my eyes on the radio clamped to the belt of one of the dead Russians at the center of the room. Ghost's eyes catch it too, and his eyebrows draw together as the string of Russian continues on. "I think we're going to have company, sir," Ghost mutters.

"Set up for Plan B," MacTavish says. "Get some C4 on those bodies. Go." Something in the back of my mind wants me to laugh, but when I see the determined look on MacTavish's face, a rock in my chest pushes the feeling back.

Roach and Ghost pull the C4 out of their packs and start planting it on the bodies while MacTavish and I keep our eyes on the door. Before too long, Ghost and Roach stand while Ghost says, "C4 planted, sir."

My eyes catch with MacTavish's before he says, "Get to an elevated position. We'll ambush them when they discover the bodies." He nods slightly and leads out the door. The rest of us walk out the door behind him and follow him up some nearby scaffolding. The four of us go prone, and Roach pulls out a trigger. Seconds later, shadows bob their way around the corner followed by a group of hostiles.

"There's the patrol. Hold your fire until they're closer," MacTavish mutters as the tangos move toward the room. Their steps are slow, almost like they know we're close by. MacTavish mutters a "standby" a few times as they near the door, and even one more as they enter. When the last tango makes his way into the room, MacTavish mutters, "Plan B. Do it."

Before he even has a chance to finish speaking, Roach's finger hits the trigger, and an explosion rocks the rig. I leap down from the scaffolding and ready my gun before MacTavish gives the word, and Ghost is right beside me. I spot a tango through the smoke and fire my gun before he can get his bearings. He hits the ground before he even lays eyes on me.

"Control, this is Hotel Six. Our cover is blown," MacTavish mutters as he and Roach hop down the scaffolding next to Ghost and me. Another tango pops his head out of the smoke close to the ground—he's on all fours, severely injured and not even concerned with our presence. He'll probably die soon anyway, but MacTavish puts the poor bastard out of his misery instead of waiting, and the way his facial expression stays frozen when he does it freezes my own blood.

"Copy that. Intel still indicates hostages and possible explosives on the top deck. Your team needs to secure that location before we can send in reinforcements to handle the SAM sites, over," the operative over the coms says.

"Roger that," says MacTavish, a hand to his ear and his face still frozen. "We'll call for exfil in LZ Bravo." He waves his hand forward while glancing at the three of us, and we start moving forward.

"The stairs are just around the next corner," I mutter as we move forward past the room where we planted the C4. We pivot into cover instantly around the corner and take out a few stragglers from the patrol squad and pivot back in just as quickly. We move further around the corner and move up a flight of stairs.

The first thing I see when I hit the next deck behind MacTavish is the sun slipping out from behind the horizon and painting the sky a medley of oranges and pinks. The second thing I see is a shadow, and before I have time enough to think about what it is, Ghost yells, "Enemy helo! Take cover! Take cover!"

My body moves before my mind does, sending me diving to the side behind some large metal beams. My eyes catch the pair of missiles as they sail over my head, and into some cargo behind me. The explosion sets my eyes on fire, and for a minute I'm back in the Middle East. I come back to the present before I even realize it when I hear the helo move around to my side. I glance over at my right to see the edge of the deck and scramble across the deck on my knees. I plant myself next to Ghost between some cargo bins and some more beams just as the helo hovers next to my previous hiding spot. It hovers for a few seconds before it starts moving again, no doubt looking for a different vantage point.

"We need to get that helo out of the air," I yell. "We're sitting ducks out here!"

"Way ahead of you," Roach mutters into the coms. I glance to my left to see him rolling out of cover with an RPG in his hands. The light from the helo falls over him, but before the guys in the helo can get off a shot, Roach fires the RPG. The helo pulls away from the deck slightly, possibly in an effort to evade the small rocket, but the effort is in vain. The RPG hits the chopper just below the propellers, blowing the mechanisms inside and sending the propellers swerving out of control. The chopper loses its stability and goes sailing downward out of sight.

"Nice shot, Roach," Ghost mutters into the coms.

I snort halfheartedly and say, "You could've gotten yourself killed with that bravado."

Ghost laughs next to me and pats me on the shoulder as he says, "He gets that recklessness from you."

"Stop fooling around. The clock's ticking," MacTavish mutters as he moves forward into cover in front of us. Another squad of hostiles approaches from our twelve as he says, "We need to get topside and secure any remaining hostages before we call in the Marines. Split up. We can flank them through these hallways."

Roach and I shoot each other looks before Roach takes the initiative and heads through the door nearby. I follow behind him quickly, and before I've had a chance to completely pass through the threshold, a shot splinters near my head. I barely have time to look up and see the tangos flooding through the door across the room from us before I join Roach behind some cover.

Roach and I poke our heads out too look at the hostiles before taking action. He pulls a Flashbang from his belt and glances at me. With a quick nod, he says, "Flashbang out," and throws the pipe overhead. As soon as I hear the faint piercing sound in my ear, I roll out of cover and start firing on the tangos while Roach takes a foot up and fires a few rounds of his own.

When our shots go silent, I say into the coms, "Clear. Moving up."

"Roger that," MacTavish mutters into my ear. "Ghost, move up."

Roach and I move toward the door and position ourselves on either side of the threshold. "MacTavish," I utter into my headset after a quick peek out the door, "we're at your twelve in position to flank the enemy."

"Copy that. Do it," MacTavish says, and without missing a beat, Roach and I lean out the doorway and start firing on the enemies.

When a bullet takes out the last enemy between us, MacTavish pops up from behind cover with Ghost not far behind him. As they start making their way toward us, MacTavish waves an arm forward as Ghost shouts, "More hostiles! Get down!"

On instinct, I shuffle my feet backwards until I pass back through the door Roach and I came out of only moments before. Roach dives the other direction, landing behind more cargo crates just in time to avoid being turned into minced meat. MacTavish and Ghost crouched behind cover not far back from where Roach and I were.

Once I'm firmly planted in the threshold, I tilt my head out to assess the situation. I don't get a look at much before gunfire explodes around me and I have to pull my head back again, but I saw what I needed to. I put a hand up to my ear and say, "Those cylinders up ahead are gas chambers. Draw the enemies in closer."

"Great minds think alike," MacTavish mutters into the coms. "Roach, fall back! Ghost, ready a frag. Keep your head down, Flash."

I nod to myself and pull out of the threshold and behind the wall, though I still keep my gun ready. I wait for a few agonizing minutes, or maybe just a few seconds, and then I hear Ghost shout, "Frag out!" Seconds later, a small explosion sounds followed immediately by a much larger one, and the gunfire stops. There are a few screams, but they go silent quickly, and eventually I hear Ghost say, "Clear."

"Move up," MacTavish says into the coms, and I step in beside him as he passes the doorway. "The top deck is right above us. You know what they say about a cornered dog. Don't get careless."

We head up the stairs with Ghost and Roach at the front and MacTavish and I following behind. The minute Ghost's feet hit the top deck, he says, "Enemy's popping smoke."

MacTavish and I hit the top right after Ghost and Roach, and we veer left while the other two take the right flank. "They've probably got thermals. Those hostages aren't going to rescue themselves; we have to move quickly, but don't take any unnecessary risks," he says as we step behind a huge pipe.

"You know the beauty of the enemy using thermal sights?" I mutter to MacTavish as the smoke spills in around us.

MacTavish glances over to me and the corner of his mouth curls up the slightest bit—the first time I've seen any measure of a smile out of him since before Rio. I can't help the smirk that graces my own mouth in response; he knows exactly what I have in mind.

"One slip up and this counts as an unnecessary risk," MacTavish mumbles to me.

"That's where you come in," I tell him. "If there's a slip up, it'll be your fault."

"You know this won't go well if the enemy is using any kind of thermal identifiers," he says.

"Pray they _aren't_ using thermal identifiers, then," I say to him.

What little of a smile he has drops from his lips as he draws his brows together. He takes a single deep breath and pats me on the shoulder blade as he says, "All right. I've got your back. I'll keep them on me." He puts a hand to his ear and says, "Ghost, Roach, do whatever you can to draw enemy fire. Flash is going in."

"Copy that," Ghost says over the coms, and Roach's voice echoes his.

"Get ready," MacTavish says to me as he pulls a Flashbang from his belt. I grip a hand on my weapon and plant my foot barely a few centimeters out of cover. MacTavish throws the Flashbang overhead, and the minute I hear it explode, I take off, dodging behind cover that was at our nine and making my way around the side of the deck. As I move forward, I spot one enemy slipping behind cover trying to make his way toward MacTavish. I shuffle my feet quickly but silently as I near him while I pull my knife from my vest. As soon as I'm close enough, I take him from behind, stabbing him in the chest while covering his mouth to silence him.

The gunfire starts up again, but none of it comes in my direction, so I lower the body to the ground without worrying too much about keeping quiet. I pull my knife from the man's chest and grab his weapon. I plant my feet where his were and look through the scope, spotting MacTavish, Ghost, and Roach through the sight, then I turn back and continue heading to the other side of the deck until I hit the end.

Before turning to face the group of unsuspecting hostiles nearby, I plant myself behind cover at the corner of the deck and take a few deep breaths. After what feels like a lifetime, I whisper into the coms, "Going loud. I'm at your ten." Without taking the time to wait for a response, I pivot around the corner, look down the scope, and fire on a line of enemies.

"Gunners in the windows," I hear MacTavish shout into the coms after more gunfire is added into the mix.

"Tango down" Ghost shouts a second later. At the same time, the last enemy in the line before me drops to the ground while another comes out of a door and turns to face me. Before I have a chance to pull the trigger, his head lolls to the side and he falls to the ground.

"The gunners are out," says Roach right as the man's head slams against the grated floor.

"Deck clear, move up," MacTavish says, and I drop the borrowed weapon to the ground before I move forward. As I near the door to the building, the smoke gets a bit thinner, and I spot MacTavish approaching from my left and Ghost and Roach approaching from in front of me. MacTavish gives me a pat on the shoulder once we reach the threshold and then moves forward to the set of doors lying before us.

Ghost, Roach, and I move up behind him, and Roach sets a charge on the door when we get there. MacTavish takes a breath before he says, "Get ready." I find myself taking my own breath in response and notice that Ghost and Roach do the same. I start counting the number of times my heart pumps against the inside of my chest—one, two, three, four—before MacTavish says, "Do it."

The door blows, and we pivot into the threshold. I hold my breath as we fire on the last of the hostiles, one running toward the door with a knife in his hand, poised to attack whoever he can before he falls. One of us takes him out, though I don't know who, and my eyes dart to the man with his gun pointed at one of the hostages. My trigger finger twitches instantaneously, and seconds later the man is falling to the floor. Another one of his buddies is kicking a hostage to the ground, but doesn't even get a chance to plant his leg back on the floor before his head explodes in a red mist. The last hostile I notice is ready to fire back on us, but doesn't get the chance to before my on gun fires, and he falls back to the ground.

"Clear," Ghost says, and everything feels quiet after that, even with the sounds of our breathing and the whimpers from the hostages.

"Control," MacTavish says as he stands up straight. We all move forward to check the hostages, but none of them are injured, except for maybe their sense of pride. "All hostages have been secured. I repeat –all hostages secured. Proceeding to LZ Bravo...Over."

"Good job, Hotel Six. Marine reinforcements are inserting now to dismantle the SAM sites. Get your team ready for phase two of the operation. Out," the operative says over the coms.

Roach laughs lightly as we move out the door on the opposite side of the room and up the stairs to the landing pad. "Oh, right. I almost forgot there was a phase two," he says when we hit the top of the stairs.

"Stay focused," MacTavish mutters even as he laughs a little himself. "We don't want to have to add a phase three."

A Little Bird hovers down a few minutes later, and it's barely touched the ground when MacTavish hops on. Ghost, Roach, and I follow suit, taking seats on either side of him, and the helo pulls out seconds later. "On to the gulag," MacTavish mutters once we're on our way. "Let's hope this is all worth it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **This chapter is sort of lacking, and for that I'm sorry. You may not believe this, but, on top of having to deal with finals, I completely overlooked _The Only Easy Day… Was Yesterday_ when I was planning out this story. I almost went to start _The Gulag_, and I realized I had to write this chapter first. Oops.

That being said, I hope you all enjoy anyway!

All love~

HK


	21. Chapter 19: The Gulag

My hand throbs where I grip the handle of my gun, and I have to resist the urge to take the gauze off my palm and pick at the gash right then and there. Flying through the air with my feet dangling from a Little Bird and other helos flying all around us and F-15s flying overhead makes me a different kind of nervous than I've felt since joining the one-four-one. There's always another mission, but for the first time in five years, it occurs to me that we're actually at war again. Five years was all it took.

The gulag comes into view as we crest the ridge, and MacTavish's words echo in my mind. _…full of casualties of the last war—which I swear I thought we'd won._ That was the truth of it really. We didn't win the last war. We're not at war again. We're at war still.

From the outside, the place looks like a fortress in every sense of the word. Built to last, and that's putting it mildly. The old bricks the structure is made of no longer have any color to them. I can see the grime buildup and weathering around the bottom of the walls, and the towers that were built around the rim of the gulag speak of centuries of difference—tangible change.

The sound of my own heartbeat drowns out the communication over the radios. Or maybe it's the fatigue. After so much strife packed in to only a few days, time seems to slow down once the gunshots stop. It should be a time of rest, a time of reflection, but it's not. As much as you wish for a break, when you finally get it, the only thing on your mind is getting back into the action and finishing it, and the thirty seconds it takes to close in on the gulag feels like a lifetime.

My weapon suddenly feels hot in my hands when I hear MacTavish say, "All snipers, this is MacTavish. Standby to engage." The F-15s fly over and blow one of the towers as we near the gulag. We bypass the destroyed tower and move on to the next one. From beside me, MacTavish and Roach ready their weapons as MacTavish says, "Stabilize." The helo comes to a halt in front of the next tower. "All snipers clear to engage," MacTavish says, and he and Roach open fire on the men unlucky enough to be stationed in the tower.

They go down like ants—so insignificant in the larger scheme of things that it feels like a waste of time to fight them. "Shift right," MacTavish says, and the helicopter pilot echoes in response. The helo moves to the next tower where four tangos are rushing to get their SAMs firing. MacTavish lifts his scope to his eye, but the sound of F-15s whizzing overhead resonates through the air and vibrates the chopper. Before they're past, they fire on the tower and it crumples to bits. The helo rocks from the nearby impact, and MacTavish's response is curt. "Shepherd! Get those fighters to cease fire immediately! That was too close!"

"I'll try to buy you some time," Shepherd replies through the coms. "One man in a gulag doesn't mean much to the Navy at this point."

"Bloody yanks," Ghost says from beside me with a nudge that results out of proximity more than anything else. "I thought they were the good guys."

I nudge him back purposefully and mutter, "Hey!" I mean it as a joke, but it doesn't seem like one with the half-assed smile on my face.

Ghost lets out a cajoling puff before he says, "Sorry."

"Ghost, Flash, cut the chatter. Stay frosty," MacTavish says without taking his eyes off the gulag. That serious tone in his voice hasn't gone away, and a part of me wonders if it ever will.

Once we finish taking out the towers, the helo brings us down to the center of the gulag, and we don't waste any time before we get out. From the moment our feet hit the ground, battle ensues. With enemies firing from our sides and our front, it feels more like war than I'd like it to. Even the gunship flying in to give us support doesn't put my mind at ease. An open attack of this scale—and things are worse elsewhere, all because of one man.

I hope this Prisoner Six-Two-Seven is worth our time.

"Flash, keep moving," I hear MacTavish say from somewhere off in front of me. I hop the low wall I'm ducked behind and join him in shooting at the hostiles a level above us. "Third floor, third floor," MacTavish shouts suddenly. "Roach, switch to your M203."

Roach does as MacTavish says and is firing grenades up at the third level seconds later. Eventually, the gunship circles back and fires a few rounds on the tangos. The gunshots stop as soon as the gunship does, and MacTavish mutters, "The entrance is up ahead. Keep moving!"

I move up when he does, and Ghost is right next to me. Roach moves ahead of us to head up the front with MacTavish. Additional forces move in with us, some Marines and some Navy. The only one of the additions I recognize is Worm, the only other from our unit to come with ground forces. Archer is on sniper support, and no doubt Ozone, Toad, and Scarecrow are offering support in their own way.

When we approach the door, hostiles come spilling out of surrounding cover. We make short work of them—most of them hit the ground before they fire a shot. The others only get off a few shots before someone takes them out. With so many bullets flying about, it's impossible to tell who was responsible for what.

"This is it," MacTavish says once the coast is clear. "We go in, grab Prisoner Six-Two-Seven, and get out! Check your corners! Let's go!"

MacTavish is the first one down the stairs, and he fires a few shots before I can even plant my foot on the first step. By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see two tangos lying lifeless on the floor and another two to the left of the corridor, one of them injured, but not quite dead. He reaches for his pistol with a lame arm, but goes limp a moment later as his eyes roll back into his head.

When we loop around the next corner, Ghost says, "That's the control room up ahead. I can use it to find the prisoner."

A shot whizzes overhead, and Roach mutters, "Let's take care of those guys first."

He starts to pull a frag from his belt, but MacTavish sticks a deft hand on his arm and says, "No grenades. We need those computers intact." Without waiting for Roach to replace the frag, MacTavish turns out and fires on one of the enemies, taking him out with a perfect headshot. I fire on the enemy that rises up to take his place, one bullet exploding through his eye and another ripping through flesh on the side of his head before he falls to the ground.

"Clear," I hear Worm say from behind me, and MacTavish echoes his words an instant later.

We all move forward into the control room with MacTavish in the lead. The minute Ghost's foot crosses the threshold, he says, "I'll tap into their system and look for the prisoner. It's gonna take some time."

"Alright," MacTavish responds, then he adds, "Flash, get on one of those other monitors and pull up a blueprint of this place and anything else you might think is useful. The rest of you are with me."

Roach mutters an affirmation and follows right behind MacTavish as he passes through the next door. Worm and a Marine, as well as another Navy soldier, follow behind them and start shooting across the cell block before their feet completely leave the room. Without waiting to see them go, I step up to a computer screen a few feet away from Ghost and start keying in demands.

"There are a lot of files in here," I mutter as I start skimming through the logs. "Lots of old data archives… Staff logs, security logs, prisoner logs… Looks like they keep track of everything."

"Tell me about it. Can you find the blueprints?" Ghost asks me, and, from the way his voice carries, it doesn't sound like he bothers to turn toward me as he speaks.

"I said they have a lot of files," I mutter, "I didn't say I couldn't find the blueprints."

I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, "All right, all right. No need to get snappy." A few more seconds pass, and then he says, "All right, I'm patched in. I'm tracking your progress on the security cameras."

"Copy that," MacTavish says. "Do you have the location of Prisoner Six-Two-Seven?"

"Negative, but I've got a searchlight tracking hostiles on your floor. That should make your job easier," Ghost says.

"Roger that! Stay sharp! The prisoner may be in one of these cells," MacTavish replies, spots of gunfire spilling in through the coms.

I angle my head toward Ghost and glance at his security feed. "I've got the blueprints. Can you set the feed to display on these monitors over here?" I ask as I gesture to a few screens above my head. Before Ghost can even utter a confirmation, the monitors click on and I can see MacTavish, Roach, Worm, and the Navy soldier fighting off hostiles while searching cells in the block. I cross reference our position with theirs to locate them on the blueprints, and then I start pulling up other images that provide layouts of the gulag.

"Ghost," we hear suddenly through the coms, "we've hit a security door. Get it open!" I can hear the heavy gunfire on the other end and the ricochets as bullets collide with prison bars.

"Workin' on it," Ghost mutters with a twinge of strain in his voice. "This hardware is ancient."

As I look at two separate power grid layouts, I say to Ghost, "Some of the hardware is still connected to older power grids. The engineering is a mess of older and newer renovations and additions. The architecture isn't any different."

"Got it," I hear Ghost mumbled to himself.

"Ghost, you opened the wrong door," MacTavish mutters, and if we weren't in a situation that required seriousness, I'd probably be laughing.

"Roger, standby," Ghost mutters. Seconds later, he says, "Got it."

"That's better," MacTavish says with a tone that has a mixture hype and hassle.

A few minutes of silence pass before we hear anyone say anything again. "Ghost," MacTavish says, "talk to me! These cells are deserted!"

"Got it," Ghost replies. "Prisoner Six-Two-Seven's been transferred to the east wing!"

"Head through the armory in the center; that's the fasted way there," I add, glancing over the blueprints a few extra times just to be sure.

"Roger that," MacTavish says before he clicks out again.

"Ghost," I say, "make sure the armory doors are open. They'll be sitting ducks if they get stuck there."

"Roger," Ghost says. Seconds later, I hear, "Bugger!"

"What is it?"

"Bad news, mate," Ghost says through the coms after giving me a quick glance. "I'm tracking three, no, four hostile squads converging on your position!"

"I can hear them coming...let's go! We're too exposed," MacTavish shouts, and I mutter a curse under my breath.

The gunfire that echoes up the center of the gulag makes me jump. "Ghost," I mutter nervously, biting the inside of my cheeks quickly before I go on, "how's that door coming?"

Before Ghost can answer, MacTavish says, "Ghost, open the door!"

"Bloody hell," Ghost says. "They've locked it from the hardline. I'll have to run a bypass." He turns to me and says, "What grid is it part of?"

Glancing up at the security display and back down to the power grid diagram, I say, "Looks like that door's on 27F."

"Roger that," Ghost says, turning back to his monitor, and then he says into the coms, "Be advised. You've got more tangos headed your way."

A few seconds of heavy gunfire echoing up to us pass before we hear MacTavish yell, "Open the door," and I almost feel like I can hear his voice through the gunfire and not just through the coms.

"Almost there! Routing through the auxiliary circuit," Ghost mumbles.

It's a few minutes of tight breath and a clenched jaw before I can hear the gunfire start to thin out down below, and I remember myself and look back to the security feed to determine their location. "Flash, how do you get down to the lower floors?" Ghost asks me quickly.

"There are stairs down the corridor to the west, but they'd have to travel through the west and south wings before they'd get to another set of stairs, and there's another cell block in the center between that and the way down to the east wing. It's probably littered with soldiers. The straightest shot there is down the center."

"Bloody maze," Ghost mumbles to himself.

"What'd you expect? It's a fortress."

"Ghost here," Ghost says with a hand to his ear. "Recommend you bypass the lower floors by rappelling out that window."

"That leads down to solitary confinement," I tell Ghost as I shuffle through levels on the blueprint.

"Copy that," Ghost mutters. After a few keystrokes, he says, "The camera feed in solitary confinement is dead. The power must be down in that section."

"Roger that," MacTavish says.

I flip to the power grid diagram again and find the level with solitary confinement. "The grid to solitary confinement is separate," I say. "Unless the next section has lost power too, you'll probably have power again when you leave solitary confinement."

"Copy," MacTavish mutters, a few stray shots sounding in the background. "I can see the light feeding through on the other side."

Pulling up the blueprints again, old and new, I add, "The area up ahead is an older part of the gulag. It looks like now they use it mostly as an insulated space for the pipes and as passage between solitary confinement and the east wing. The old cells have been sealed off in more recent years, so you shouldn't have to worry about any surprise attacks."

"Copy that," MacTavish repeats before a loud rumbling makes its way through his radio. At nearly the same time, another, louder rumbling resounds above us, and the sound of the explosion is impossible to miss. A large piece of the ceiling above comes crumbling down, hits a metal support above the control room, then tumbles to the side and just misses the control room as it tumbles down below us. Light floods in from the hole where the fire hit, and I can see the white sky when I look above me. "Shepherd, what the hell was that," MacTavish yells, voicing my thoughts. "Get the Navy to cease fire!"

"The Navy isn't in a talking mood right now," Shepherd says. "Standby."

"What are they thinking?" Ghost mutters as he cracks his knuckles nervously and glances back and forth between the ceiling and his monitor.

"They're probably thinking they want to kill every Ruskie in this place," I reply. "Considering the attack on the US, I can't exactly blame them."

"You will if they get us killed," Ghost says.

"Bravo Six, they've agreed to stop firing for now. Keep going. I'll keep you posted. Out," Shepherd says a few seconds later.

"I see the door to the east wing up ahead," MacTavish says.

"That way will take you through teems of hostiles. There's a weak wall to your left," I say. "It'll take you straight through the showers."

"Roger that," MacTavish says, "Roach, plant a breaching charge on the wall. We're taking a shortcut."

"Prisoner Six-Two-Seven is on this level?" Ghost asks me.

"No," I reply, looking over the drafts again. "The door to the east wing would have led them to the stairs down to the lower level, but they're gonna have to breach another wall to get to the stairs." He steps over to me quickly, keeping his eyes on the security feeds while he closes the distance—Roach, MacTavish, and Worm are battling it out in the shower room, and the Navy and Marine soldiers are nowhere to be found. They must have been downed. When Ghost gets to me, he glances over my shoulder at the plans, and I point out the area to him. After a brief moment, he nods and returns to his station.

The fight in the shower room is colored by water and chips of tile spraying everywhere. I lose sight of them when they're about halfway through, and I turn around to look at Ghost for an answer. When he doesn't say anything, I say, "Do you have them on the feed?"

"No," Ghost says. "Power is up in that area, but the cameras must have suffered some damage."

"Perfect," I mutter without managing to sound sarcastic at all.

It isn't long before we hear from MacTavish again. "Ghost, we're in the old tunnel system heading south-southwest," he says.

Ghost is up next to me looking over the drafts with me before MacTavish even finishes speaking. He drags a finger along the screen, probably for my benefit, as he says, "Okay. Keep going along that tunnel."

"Bravo Six, I'm sending the teams in for extraction. Hurry up and finish what you're doing, then pop flares so they can pull you out. The Navy isn't going to wait much longer," Shepherd says suddenly.

"Talk to me, Ghost," MacTavish says with a nervous twinge. "I don't want to be down here when those ships start firing again."

"Keep going. You're almost there," says Ghost, leaning a hand on the control panel as he leans further over my shoulder. He takes his hand away quickly and hops back over to his station while I shoot a flare up through the center hole above us. With a few quick keystrokes, Ghost says, "I'm detecting two heat signatures behind the wall just in front of you. One of them should be Six-Two-Seven."

"Copy that," MacTavish says. "You two pull out. We can make our way out from here. See ya on the far side."

"Roger that," Ghost mutters as the sound of chopper blades drowns out the end of his sentence. I glance over my computer screen a few more times as a rope is lowered down to us through the gaping hole above. "Flash, let's go," Ghost says, but some part of my brain doesn't hear him. Seconds later, an explosion resounds nearby that rocks us a little bit, but the only debris around us falls from the weakened structures that are caked with dust. "Flash, we need to get the bloody hell out of here," Ghost says, louder this time, and my foot responds by angling itself toward the rope, but I don't leave the station.

Without letting my eyes leave the monitor, I mutter hastily, "There are natural gas lines running above and below the east wing. If the Navy bombs that area, the whole thing will explode. I've gotta cut the flow." I pull up a command window and start entering in keystrokes as fast as my fingers will let me while another explosion occurs. This time it's close, and the debris that falls from above crumbles down and butchers the part of the control room that's behind us. More light floods in from the ceiling, and for some reason, despite the cold air, it makes my fingers feel hot.

"Flash, now!" Ghost yells.

Before he can completely finish, I shout a triumphant, "There," and then my eardrums go numb and my body goes weightless. I feel a nauseous weight in my stomach that feels similar to the feeling of going down a steep hill on a roller coaster. The weight shifts upward as my body is pulled back toward the ground, and pain explodes from my lower left back and travels through to my front. My eyes are instantly clouded by tears and the entire left side of my body tenses from the pain.

With insistent sharp breaths, I struggle to get some kind of hold on something with my right arm, and when I find what I'm looking for—a piece of debris, a control panel maybe—I push against it with all my might with the hope of taking some of the pressure off my lumbar area. I barely move, and my right arm is already shaking from the pain on my left side. My feet are struggling to find some sort of stabilization, but whenever I get my feet flat on the ground to lift myself up, they slide against debris, and the pain in my side increases.

Involuntary grunts and wheezes of pain escape my lips with every movement that I make, but the sounds are so quiet that Ghost sounds loud when I hear him say, "Fucking hell! Flash!" After another grunt of pain, I try to open my mouth to speak, but I close it again and swallow roughly when I feel like I'm about to throw up. Instead, I let out a cough, and I taste the iron in my mouth immediately—just a little bit, but, coincidentally or not, my heart starts beating faster when I do.

I can feel the warmth of Ghost beside me before I see him. He has an arm wrapped around the right side of my back before either of us has time to say anything, and I can feel the pressure get taken off my side, but the pain doesn't subside, and another series of grunts and groans escape me. I move my left arm to inspect the wound, but the only thing I can feel when it gets there is the warm stickiness of my clothes. I feel something else—cold, probably metal—and my hand is shaking when I touch it, but that's probably from the pain.

"Bloody hell, Flash," says Ghost, his voice trailing off. "Gotta get you off this thing. Can you do it?"

I bite my lower lip and have to consciously think about _not_ biting a hole through it as I clench my eyes together in some hope to dull the pain. Somehow I manage a nod, but I'm not sure how strongly he sees it.

"Grab onto me," he says, and his voice sounds strange. I grip his upper arm with my right hand. When I go to loop my left arm around him, my muscles tense stiffer, and a yelp of pain finds its way out of my mouth. "Come on, Flash, you can do this," Ghost says. I can hear the unease in his voice.

I try to wrap my left arm around him again, and this time I bite down on my lower lip again for comfort. It doesn't help the pain, but somehow it gives me the will to fight through it. The stimuli of the tears and sweat streaming down the side of my face also helps to take my mind away from it, but not much, and a part of me hopes a piece of debris will come out of the sky and kill me, break my neck if only to stop the pain.

When my left hand makes contact with his back, I grab hold of his vest as tightly as my hands will allow. He doesn't give me warning before he pulls me up, and it wouldn't matter if he did. My cry rips through my wind pipe and tenses my lungs all the same. Another cough finds its way to me in the middle, and a burning sensation rips through my lungs and out of my mouth before I taste iron again. A small trickle of blood slips down my throat when my head lolls back from weakness in my neck.

Ghost pulls me toward the rope and my legs and my feet drag and scrape against the ground as I try to get my footing, but I can't seem to get myself onto my feet. Ghost lets me fall to my knees when we reach the rope, and he reaches into my pack and pulls out my line and buckle. He attaches it to his own belt before he pulls out his own and attaches it to the helo line.

"Flash," Ghost says to me in a soothing voice, "wrap your arms around my back, grab my vest, and hold on as tight as you can, you got that? As tight as you can."

"Okay," I manage to say, but my voice is cracking and scratchy and doesn't sound like my own. He crouches down in front of me and goads me forward by gently grabbing the elbow of my left arm and leading it around him. I take control of it myself, but he keeps his hand on my elbow, and it's the only thing that stops me from pulling my arm back when my side tenses again and more pain shoots through my body. I do my best to ignore it, aside from more squeaks of pain that come out of my lungs in rapid succession, and I hook my right arm over his left shoulder. My hand finds his vest quickly, and I grip the strap until my skin is taut over my knuckles.

Ghost hooks and arm under my own and grabs the line with the other. He gives it a yank and a swing, and then wraps his other arm under my arm. "Hang on, Flash," he repeats in a soft voice, but it sounds more to reassure himself than to reassure me, or maybe the pain is getting to me.

I'm not going to make it. I'm already starting to feel cold from the blood loss, and my head feels like its swimming. The feeling gets worse when the line pulls taut and we go sailing up into the air. I have to shut my eyes to keep from throwing up, and I feel my left hand loosen its grip instantly. "Hang on, Flash," Ghost repeats in a shout, and I try to tighten my grip again, but the way my arm is hanging down shows how much of my weight he's supporting on his own.

"Pull us up! Pull us up now!" Ghost yells, and his tone makes my heart pound against the inside of my chest faster.

Before I can get my bearings on the gravity change, I feel a hand on the back of my vest, and my body shifts onto its side as it's pulled over a rough edge. I grunt with pain when my side hits the object, and I try to reach around with my arms to stop whatever is happening, but my hands only slap against a cold, flat surface. I open my eyes to turn and look around, but I can find the strength to support my head and my eyes only see blurs. When my body is completely flat, another cough ensues, and clot of blood makes its way out of my throat. It doesn't taste like anything anymore.

But my ears still work, and as I'm pulled a bit further across the floor, I hear someone yell, "Flash! Get the trauma kit!"

It's Archer. My mind knows it before my ears can recognize it, and I know the shadow that kneels beside me is him. I try to reach out for him, but I can't get my arm to move. I try to speak instead, and my voice sounds strange when I do it. "Archer," I squeeze out, but I don't know if he hears me.

"Don't try to talk, Flash," Ghost mumbles softly, and it isn't until then that I realize he's sitting on the other side of me. I try to reach for him, this time with a little more success, and my fingers brush against his knee. He reaches a hand down and grips mine, and it feels like a tether, so I grip back as much as my strength will let me. "You'll make it through this, Flash," Ghost whispers, and it's the only definite sound I can seem to hear anymore.

"Bravo Six is out," I hear in my ear.

It sounds far away, but the Scottish voice is unmistakable, and a small smile plays at my lips. "They made it out," I hear myself say, and I let my eyes close to block out the increasingly confusing shapes around me. I feel two fingers on my wrist, so I tighten the grip in my right hand to let Ghost know I'm still here.

With a quiver in his voice, Ghost says, "All bodies out," and then my ears start to ring. Before I can hear the last thing Ghost says, the sounds around me warp, and then everything is silent.


	22. Chapter 20: Contingency

You know that feeling when you wake up and feel like you didn't get enough rest? Well, this is that feeling, the feeling like I'm still tired, like I just want to turn over and go back to sleep without a care in the world. My body doesn't let me. It could be because of the distant pain or the general sense of discomfort. It could be because I feel like I've been asleep for too long already. It could just be that awful beeping sound that keeps piercing my eardrum at a steady beat. It could also be the way I feel like I could throw up. But it's not just a feeling, and I force myself to roll onto my right side so I don't choke. Nothing comes up after all, but I spend a good ten seconds dry heaving before I roll back onto my back.

A voice sails into my ear. "You're awake," it says, but I don't recognize it. The voice is British, but it's not Ghost. It's not Archer. I have to open my eyes to find out who it is—much to my dismay. The lights above me make my head throb with a strange vertigo, as if I can feel the pressure but not the pain. The sensation takes seconds to dissipate, and I'm free to look around the room quickly. My eyes find the man before my brain knows what to do with the information, and I can't get any words out of my mouth.

"Soap has been waiting to see if you'll wake up since we got here, but I had him go catch a few winks," the man says as he fiddles with the rim of a hat he's holding in his hands.

"Are you one of Shepherd's?" I question the moment his sentence ends. My voice sounds strange, pleasantly familiar but also different when it touches the air. It's like my body wasn't expecting to hear the sound of its own voice again.

He puts both feet on the ground and slides off the arm of his chair into a stand and places his hat on his head as he does so. His thumbs hook into his pants pockets when he says, "Prisoner Six-Two-Seven, the one you busted your ass to save." His mouth moves into a long line, almost a smile, but not quite the same exuberance. "Name's John Price," he adds, and my natural reaction is to try and sit up. He stops me with a forceful hand to the shoulder and says, "Not so fast, there. You took quite the beating."

"John Price," I repeat without his words even registering in my mind. "Captain Price?" I ask.

"Right," he says, as if his standing here is no big thing, as if he hasn't been thought dead for the last three years. "Good work in the gulag. We wouldn't have made it out without you."

"Everyone's okay, then? Everyone got out safely?" I ask, tasting the anticipation—or that could be the leftover taste in my mouth from coughing up blood and possibly puking a few times before I even woke up. I don't notice it until now, and my stomach starts to turn as I wait for the man standing before me to give me an answer.

"All bodies accounted for," Price says. He gestures to the other side of me as he says, "Worm was WIA, but he's fine. Wasn't hurt as badly as you."

I look over to the bed next to me to see a sleeping Worm lying with gauze across his face. "What happened?"

"Burns from the explosions," Price says. "Guess the Navy figured we were all expendable."

"Occupational hazard," I mumble as I watch Worm's even breaths in his chest. "Otherwise they probably would have sent a team to confirm you were KIA. I still can't even believe it," I say as I look back to Price, and somewhere in the back of my mind I think of how this might lift MacTavish's spirits, erase the grave look that's been plastered on his face for the past few days—at least for a little while.

He huffs out a laugh as the corner of his mouth curls into a sardonic smile and says, "It'll take more than that for Makarov to kill me."

"Flash," I hear through my left ear, "you're awake." When I turn my head, it's Ghost who meets my eyes. He's holding his balaclava in his hands, worrying at the skull with his thumbs. There's a strange mixture of emotions in his eyes. He looks a little relieved, but also tired. Angry. Concerned. When he catches eyes with Price, his brows get heavy.

His eyes soften after a moment as Price says, "Soap will want to know you're awake." He doesn't look at me when he starts to leave. His eyes stay on Ghost, and Ghost gives Price a slight nod before Price passes him and heads out the door.

Ghost walks around my bed and takes Price's spot beside me. He hesitates before leaning on the arm of the chair. His thumbs are still brushing over the skull on his balaclava even as he looks at me. No one says anything for what feels like a lifetime. I can feel the weight that I see in his eyes deep in my chest, and for the smallest moment I remember him holding me as tightly as he could while we were suspended in the air.

"Thank you," I say immediately. "I wouldn't have made it out of the gulag without you, Ghost."

He laughs sardonically before he says, "I didn't think you'd make it."

I don't know why, but I remember Royce and Meat then. A laugh spills out of me, and I say, "Was it really that bad?"

"Jesus, Flash," says Ghost, bunching up his balaclava in the grip of his left hand as he starts pacing next to the bed. "That wreckage went straight through you! I thought you were gonna die right there before I could get you out of there! There was blood everywhere. I don't know how you were even still awake! And when the heli pulled us out, your body went limp… I thought that was it right there!"

"I know," I mumble before he goes any further. "I thought..." The helo blades echo in my mind. Voices. I remember the blood sticky on my left hand. "I thought that was it, too," I say, and I try to ignore the memory of iron in my mouth.

Ghost swallows and sits back on the arm of the chair. His voice is quiet when he speaks this time. "You went into cardiac arrest twice. Almost didn't come back the second time," he says. "There was so much blood… Archer kept at it the entire time—wouldn't let anyone take his place. Shepherd hasn't even debriefed us yet; MacTavish and Price refused to contact him. We all thought you wouldn't make it—"

"Ghost," I interrupt, and his mouth shuts instantly. "I did make it. It's okay."

His hands shake a little before he says, "Who knows what MacTavish would have done if things had gone the other way? Even Price was on edge. I don't know how I would have lived with myself if…"

"You _can_ live with yourself, Ghost," I mutter. "You got me out of there. Don't feel guilty."

His hands stop shaking and he stuffs his balaclava into his pocket before he says, "Don't ever do that again. Next time I tell you to pull out, you pull out. Got it?"

Despite the serious tone in his voice, I can't help the smile that comes to my face. "I've got it," I say. When he sticks a hand out, I lift my right hand up and take it.

"You owe me one," he says as he grips my hand and gives it a single shake.

"Elaine," I hear from the doorway, and before I even have time to turn, MacTavish is leaning on the end of my bed with single-minded eyes on me and brows furrowed. Price steps in right behind him, hat still on his head and one thumb still hooked into the pocket of his pants.

"Not you, too," I say with a smile. "Don't tell me _all_ of you thought I was gonna eat it back there."

MacTavish sighs as he looks down at me. His expression stays the same as he says, "Your injuries were severe…"

"Tell me about it," I say, glancing to Price and then looking back to MacTavish. "Without Ghost and Archer, I wouldn't have lived through that."

"You're not the only one," Price mutters, taking another few steps forward. "If you hadn't shut off those valves, we'd have been dead too. Soap, don't forget why we're here," he says as he looks to MacTavish then glances back to me with a nod.

"Price, she's," MacTavish starts.

He never gets to finish. "We're not finished with this yet. Say what you need to say. We have someone we need to report to," Price says with a professional tone.

"Another mission?" I ask. "Where are we now?"

Price takes a step away from MacTavish and toward me and says, "Not far from the gulag. Getting you out of there was a real pain in the ass. Try not to die next time, eh?"

MacTavish gives me a grave look before he says, "We need to report to Shepherd."

"I can still help," I mutter. "Don't make me sit this out. I want to know what's going on."

"Flash, you almost died back there," he says.

"I need to know what's happening, MacTavish," I say. "I need to be a part of this."

"Flash—"

"We can do it here," Price says. "Patch him through."

"Flash, are you sure you want to," Ghost starts as he stands from the chair.

"Patch him through," Price says, his voice silencing all three of us, and they all start matching the frequencies of their radios, still hooked on their vests, while MacTavish pulls out his laptop and starts matching them up with a satellite uplink. I don't know how long it's been, but everyone looks just like they did before we went into the gulag, fully geared except for the weapons and explosives that were strapped on their vests and their belts. Price patches an extra radio through, like he'd plan to clue me in all along, and hands it to me. I put the earpiece on and set the rest of the apparatus on my lap.

"Uplink nearly complete," MacTavish says as he gives me a glance. "General Shepherd, you're online with Captain Price."

"It's about time," Shepherd says on the other end, and some part of me still cringes at the sound of his voice. "Back from the brink, Captain," he says.

"'Out of the frying pan' is more like it," Price says. I can hear a bit of MacTavish's cajoling in him–or maybe it would be more appropriate to say I can hear where MacTavish got it from. "This world looks more like hell than the one I just left," Price adds, and he nudges MacTavish to the side to take over at the computer. Ghost steps in behind him to look over his shoulder, and I'm left out of the loop a little bit anyway.

"We thought we'd recover the ACS before the Russians could crack it. We were wrong. Then Makarov turned the U.S. into his scapegoat. Next thing you know there's flames everywhere. What's this image you're sending me?" Shepherd says.

"You want to put out an oil fire, sir," Price starts, "you set off a bigger explosion right next to it. Sucks away the oxygen. Snuffs the flame." His face is all business even though moments ago he was joking around. There's no fine line between the two like there is with MacTavish, and I wonder: is that long years or experience at work, or has he gone crazy after these last few years in the gulag?

And Shepherd seems to be wondering the same thing—that kills me, but at the same time makes me wonder if my suspicions are true. "Price, you been locked away too long. Better get your mind right, son," he says.

"Shepherd, are you willing to do what's necessary to win?" Price asks.

"Always," Shepherd says, and suddenly it feels like it's just the two of them talking, like the rest of us aren't even in the room.

"We got ourselves a pretty big fire. Gonna need a huge bang," Price mutters.

"You've been in the gulag too long, Price," Shepherd repeats. "Focus on taking out Makarov."

"No time, sir," Price says. "We need to end this war today."

"I'm not asking you, Price. This is an order," Shepherd yells. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm smiling, smiling at the fact that Price is getting a rise out of Shepherd. "You're to—" Shepherd starts, but there's a clicking noise and then silent feedback.

Price hums and says, "Looks like we lost our connection."

"What's our next step?" MacTavish asks, and I realize I almost forgot he was in the room, but I think it's because the pain in my side is getting to me.

"The intel from the SEALs is still good," Price mutters as he slams the laptop shut.

"What intel?" I chime in.

"The Russians," MacTavish says with a glance to me. "There's a submarine base not far from here. Reports indicate they have SLBMs and a whole lot of Russians manning the base, which can only mean one thing."

"You think they plan to launch?" Ghost asks.

"Maybe, maybe not," Price says. "Not important. We're here now and we're gonna do what we can. Get ready."

"What about me?" I say.

"No," MacTavish jumps in. "Don't even think about it, Flash."

"I can't take the field, I know that," I snap back, "but I can still help. Don't make me sit this out. I can still help. Planning, com support, whatever."

"We'll _need_ her on com support," Price says, and MacTavish shoots him the strangest look I've ever seen on his face—indignation, surprise, but also a bit of subservience.

"Price, she was on the brink less than twelve hours ago," MacTavish mutters.

"Without her balls, none of us would be standing in this room right now," Price says, and MacTavish shuts up. "We're going with what the SEALs said, storm the base, stop that sub. We'll move out as soon as everyone is ready." When no one moves, Price adds, "Now," and Ghost reacts immediately. MacTavish gives me a wistful glance before he walks from the room.

Price gives me a long, hard stare and a quick nod. It stabs me hard, harder than the pain in my side, and I can hear MacTavish's voice in my head. _You remind me of him in a way_, he says. He compared me to him, to this man I knew nothing about, to this man who was ready to give his life for his comrades no matter what, who_ did_ give his life for his comrades, for three years, who is ready to give his life for his comrades again, right now. And here he was looking at me with respect, someone that he barely knows, someone who is a comrade in his eyes already.

"Wait," I mutter before he leaves the room. "Did you mean what you said?"

"What?"

"About doing what's necessary to win. Did you mean it?"

"Always," Price echoes, and I know that he means it. More than Shepherd did, I know that Price really means it.

I don't know what's going through my mind. I'm thinking of home, of the old home where I used to live, before the one-four-one became my home, the place of my birth, even if I don't really live there anymore. I'm thinking of all Price gave up just to let MacTavish and the others get away three years ago. I'm thinking of Meat and Royce, who really did give their lives for this war, of Worm lying in the bed across the room from me, and I say to Price, "Let me help you."

"You sure you're ready for this?" he asks me.

I give him the hardest stare I can muster and say again, "Let me help you."

"If you want to help, you'll have to do everything I say, no questions asked," he says.

"No questions asked," I repeat.

"Frequency 136.67," he says to me, and he's out of the room seconds later.

* * *

><p>The next time I see anyone besides the nurse—who gives me the bare minimum of morphine at Price's instruction—is MacTavish, hours later, along with a few others dragging along gear. "Why are you here?" I ask him when I see that he's pulling in a foldable table and chair. The others start setting up the gear around the bed.<p>

"I'm on com support with you," MacTavish says.

"I didn't think you'd miss a chance at the field," I say to him.

"Look what happened last time I left you to your own," he says.

"I wasn't alone."

"Right," he says. "Ghost was with you."

"Don't start taking this out on him."

"No, no," he says. "I know. It's just that—at least if it had been me there, I'd have no one to blame but myself. I don't want to blame Ghost. But I wasn't there, and I just don't know who else to blame."

"If it was anyone's fault," I say, "then it was my own. I disobeyed a direct order." Thinking back to Minas Gerais, I joke, "Again. We all know what happens when I do that."

"Elaine," he says as he starts setting up his own apparatus near my bedside, "you're still in bad shape. Someone's gotta keep an eye on you. I'll let Price take the reins on the field."

"Right," I mutter, remembering my deal with Price. A few minutes of silence pass before I say, "What's the status on the operation?"

MacTavish is ready to answer immediately. "The SEALs were already working on it before you woke up. The plan's in place. Everyone just needs to get in position," he says.

"What kind of equipment are we dealing with?"

"We'll have a predator at our disposal, but they aren't giving us any other air units. We don't know what kind of defenses the Russians will have, but intel doesn't indicate any SAMs," he says.

"It _is_ a submarine base with nuclear missiles," I say. "I doubt they'd leave it undefended from air units."

"Still, can't help but hope intel is right," MacTavish says. "Flash, you sure you're okay to do this?"

"I'm lucid now, aren't I?" I say. "MacTavish, I'm part of this. I can't let someone take over for me."

He looks less than pleased, but he says, "Alright, alright." As his setup nears completion, he says, "They're 'chuting in close to the base. I'll need you to keep them posted on the base layout as soon as they give you what you need to crack into their systems. Price'll be conferring with you on that front."

"Got it," I mutter, ignoring a distant stab of pain as I adjust myself to work the computers around me.

"Price," MacTavish says into the coms. "Price, you read me?"

I adjust my monitors briefly and fix a headset to my ear. Then I give MacTavish a thumbs up. "Copy that," Price says into our ears. "Five minutes from drop off. Is everything set up on your end?"

"Copy that," MacTavish says. "We're both hooked up and ready for ya."

It feels like a lifetime of fighting off distant pain before Price says, "Thirty seconds from drop off." I count down silently in my head—it takes my mind off of the discomfort a little bit—and then I hear Price mutter, "Releasing."

"Price, I can barely see Roach's chute on my satellite feed. Too much interference. Do you see him, over?" MacTavish asks.

"Roger that, Soap. I've found Roach. He appears to be intact. We're gonna head northwest to the sub base, over," Price says.

"Price," I mutter into the coms once I've found Price and Roach on my feed, "you're gonna pass by the main road on your way there. Keep your eyes peeled for hostiles."

"Copy," he says.

MacTavish jumps in and says, "The rest of the team landed near Ghost, pretty far to the east."

"Tell them to proceed with the mission, we'll regroup if possible. Roach, follow me and stay out of sight," Price says.

MacTavish relays Price's orders to Ghost through the coms, and I hear Ghost's sure voice through the radio. For a minute, it's like the gulag never happened, and then I feel the distant pain in my side again and remember that I'm sitting in an infirmary bed hooked up to a constantly beeping monitor with an IV feeding me something or other.

"Contact. Enemy patrol 30 meters to our front," Price says. "Five men, automatic rifles, frag grenades. One German Shepherd."

"Dogs," MacTavish mutters. "I hate dogs."

"These Russian dogs are like pussycats compared to the ones in Pripyat," Price says.

MacTavish responds, "It's good to have you back, old man," and I feel another stab not related to my injuries. This stab is different, though. Relief isn't really the right word for it, but it's the first one that comes to mind. MacTavish is still in there somewhere, MacTavish from before the gulag, MacTavish from before Rio, before Meat and Royce, a MacTavish that existed before Price went MIA. There's a little jealousy, too, jealousy knowing that a part of him I never knew is in there somewhere, a part that Price took with him to the gulag.

"The forest stays pretty thick until you get to the base," I tell Price through the coms, even though he doesn't really need to hear it, just so, somehow, I can remind everyone that I'm still there, that, even though I wasn't part of Operation Kingfish three years ago, I'm still part of the group now. "They want to keep well hidden, but it works both ways. The longer you stay out of sight, the better."

"Roger that. Let's follow them quietly, and pick off any stragglers," Price says.

The radio is silent for another few minutes, and I try to stay busy. I map out escape routes, possible enemy ambush locations, possible patrol routes, whatever I can to keep my mind busy while MacTavish keeps tabs on Ghost and the rest of the team and mutters commands to them until eventually Roach and Price get closer to the main road. "You're nearing the road," I mutter.

"Roger," Price says. "I see it from here," he says, and then to Roach, "Convoy coming. Get out of sight."

Another few minutes pass. "The convoy stopped, all tangos down," Price says. "Continuing up the road."

"Copt that," I say.

Mere seconds later, Price says, "Soap, our intel _was_ off. The Russians have mobile SAMs."

MacTavish and I share a glance before he says, "Roger that," and then he shrugs, as if to say, _Hey, a guy can hope, right?_

And then we hear Price say, "BTRs! We're compromised!"

"Price," I shout, the plan already formed in my head, "head through the woods for cover and get out of sight. There's a ridge to the east that'll put you in the village. From there, it's a direct path to the base. Ghost and the others can intercept you there."

"Roger that," Price says, and I can hear explosions and gunfire from the other end.

MacTavish gives me a quick glance and a knowing smirk before he tells Ghost's team to keep heading west toward the village. "Sometimes I forget why we keep you around," he jokes.

"And sometimes I forget that, without me, you guys would be walking around with your asses in the air," I joke back.

"'Playing it by ear' has always been your strength even more than it's been mine," MacTavish mutters.

"What can I say?" I say with a smile, "My mind works better under pressure," and it feels like it did before the gulag, before the oil rigs, before Rio, before the East Coast got sacked, before Makarov killed Allen.

"MacTavish, what's the status on our air support?" Price asks a few minutes later.

"The UAV is en route to your position," MacTavish mutters.

"Rodger that," Price says, and I can hear the smile in his voice when he adds, "This ridge is perfect." Seconds later, we hear, "Bollocks!"

"What just happened?" MacTavish asks before I get the chance to.

"There is a mobile SAM site in the village. It just shot down our Predator. Soap, we need another Predator," Price says.

"On it," MacTavish mutters before he starts fiddling with a different monitor.

"We've linked up with Ghost and the rest of the team," Price says seconds later. "Heading north toward the base."

"Roger that. The second Predator is almost in position. Make it count, these things don't grow on trees," MacTavish mutters.

"Price," I say into the coms, "get me into the enemy system. I can't help you if I'm blind."

"Copy," Price shouts through some gunfire. "Roach, check the enemies for satellite radios. That'll give us what we need to crack into their systems."

A few minutes pass, more internal planning in my head, more commands and updates through the radio from Price, and then I hear, "Ghost here. I'm uploading encryption information from the enemy sat system. Can you use it?"

"Roger that, I'm getting your upload," I tell him. "I can trace the firewall to the master OS and crack into their system. Just give me a few minutes."

"Copy that," Price chimes in. "We're heading toward the sub."

The situation sounds frantic for a few minutes, and I try to block it out while I work, typing commands into the black window on the screen before me. The encryption is anything but easy, and I have to use a cheat sheet that MacTavish pulls out in order to translate the commands into Russian, but eventually I crack into it and thank Ozone silently for all of his lessons in hacking. "What have you got for us?" Price asks almost as soon as I'm into the system.

"The only thing I have for you right now is that the base is on full alert," I tell him.

"Tell me something I don't know," Price says into my ear.

"The base has multiple BTRs on defense; they've been deployed and are probably en route to your position right now," I say. "If the sat feed is right, there are multiple trucks inbound from the south."

"Copy that," Price says. "Roach, use the Predator Drone to take out those trucks."

Seconds later, MacTavish says, "Multiple kills confirmed. Nice work, Roach," and, after about thirty seconds, he says, "AGM missile is online."

From there, it's rinse and repeat while I continue planning in the back of my mind and keep looking for new enemy information simultaneously. I learn of the enemy chopper almost as soon as Price sees it, and he orders Roach to take it out before I can get a warning to them.

"We're getting close to the sub," Price says, and then I hear it. I don't know how, but I know he's talking to me when he says it. "You know what to do," Price says, and I patch into the frequency as he says it.

"Roach and I are gonna cover him from the guardhouse by the west gate," Ghost says. "Keep us posted on the enemy."

"Do you read me?" Price says to me.

"I read you," I say as quietly as I can, but MacTavish still hears me, and he shoots me a puzzled look.

"Flash, is everything," MacTavish starts.

But I don't give him a chance to finish. "Ghost," I mutter quickly, just as much out of necessity as it is to keep MacTavish from getting suspicious. "Multiple hostiles coming from the north. Take care of 'em."

"Copy. Roach, use the Predator," Ghost shouts over the gunfire.

"I'm in the sub," Price says in my ear, and, even though his voice is at normal volume, it feels like he's whispering. "Uploading communication information now. Use it to crack into the system." I don't say anything back to him, but I think he knows somehow that I heard him. He keeps talking through the pauses that I would normally respond in. "I'm heading to the control room," he says. "Get me the launch codes."

"What?" I mutter before my mind knows it.

Out of some stroke of luck, MacTavish thinks I'm talking to him, and he repeats, "Predator Drone is down."

"Get. Me. The launch codes. No questions asked," Price reminds me, and I get to work on the computer. A few minutes. Silence, then, "I'm in the main control room. Do you have them?"

I don't say anything at first. _Are you willing to do what's necessary to win,_ I hear in my head. _Always, _Shepherd had said, but he didn't really mean it. _Did you mean what you said?_ I'd asked Price. _Always, _Price had said to me, and I _knew_ that he meant it.

But they aren't what's important. _Am _I _willing to do what's necessary to win_, I ask myself. _For Royce? For Meat? For myself?_

"Do you have them?" Price repeats in my ear.

_Am I?_ I repeat in my head.

"Transmitting now," I say, and MacTavish turns his head toward me again.

He doesn't have time to ask before we hear Ghost shout, "Price, come in! They're opening the silo doors on the sub! Hurry!"

We listen. No response.

"Price, do you copy? The silo doors are open! I repeat, the silo doors are open," Ghost shouts, and I can feel MacTavish get tense by my side.

I feel weightless for one small moment. Not physically weightless—it's like, for one perfect moment, nothing else matters, like, after one perfect moment, nothing is going to be the same.

And then Price says, "Good," and I don't know whether he was speaking to me or to all of us.

"Wait, wait, Price, no," Ghost shouts, and then he yells, "We have a nuclear missile launch. Missile in the air! Missile in the air! Code Black, Code Black!"

And then I feel MacTavish's eyes on me.

And then I think, _Always._


	23. Chapter 21: Loose Ends

There are few things quite as painful as letting down someone you love, someone you trust. There's losing people of course, like the way I lost Sergeant Jackson and Lieutenant Vasquez and Private West, like the way I lost Meat and Royce, but that's different. They're dead, and it hurts, but the only one you have left to blame is yourself, so it's different. The only thing that can ever compare is doing something you know is right, something you know _has_ to be done even if it means turning against the ones you love and everything you stand for to do it.

That's why, when he stares at me, I don't say anything. His eyes burn holes straight through me, but I keep quiet, and Price does too. MacTavish wants to put the blame on someone, but he doesn't know who to blame, and he's right to be confused. There _is_ no one to blame. It had to be done. One way or another, it had to be done.

There's no room left for doubts.

There's no room left for hesitance.

Right here, right now, the only thing left to do is stop the war, stop the bloodshed no matter what.

Even with the pain in my heart, I know it's true. I bury my doubts deep inside me until they're gone, and as his eyes burn holes through me from across the room, the only thing that's left for them to find is determination. Hard, cold determination.

And what hurts the most is knowing that it tears him apart.

Even through Shepherd's scolding words, it doesn't matter. Even through Price's justifications, it doesn't matter. Even through my own determination, it doesn't matter. It's not the decision that kills him. It's not the way either of us disobeyed Shepherd's orders. It's not the way we risked tens of thousands of lives to gain the upper hand. It's not the way he was kept out of our plans.

It's the fact that, despite everything that's happened between us, he's not really sure he knows me at all.

And neither am I. Despite everything I've been through, despite everything I've experienced, I'm a stranger to myself.

It was wrong. In so many ways, what we did was wrong, but it was right, too. It was necessary. Until yesterday, necessity and I were strangers. Today, we're practically best friends.

And it's necessity that keeps me silent, that doesn't waste time defending my position. Price says it first. "There's no point in worrying about it now," he says. Shepherd, one submarine ride and one helicopter flight closer to us, concedes to his words, and I feel like we're on the same side. And for the first time ever, I'm not bothered by it.

"It's been a tough week, gentlemen," Shepherd says. "We've lost more than we ever dreamed. But we will recover. I've got a blank check. And we're gonna use every cent of it killin' Makarov. Despite what the world may say, we are not savages, we don't kill civilians. We use precision. There's an evil man hiding in these shadows and we're gonna bring him into the light. Once his face is revealed, we will write history, gentlemen," he says, and necessity bids that I agree.

"These are the last safe havens left on Earth for Makarov and his men," Shepherd says as he displays a map up on the monitors.

I wouldn't even be part of briefing if Shepherd hadn't been so eager to rip us a new one. _We shouldn't move her,_ they said, Archer included, but Shepherd had demanded and I insisted and Price had my back, so they shoved me into the nearest wheel chair and carted me down to the briefing room. In some ways, reopening my wound would have been better than suffering through MacTavish's stares.

One of the safe houses is in the Caucasus Mountains, the other in Afghanistan, though the one in Afghanistan can hardly be called a house. The boneyard, Shepherd called it, and it almost made me want to laugh. What better place for Makarov to hide than in a U.S. vehicle disposal yard in the country where we've been executing cleanup for the past five years? And a house deep in the mountains away from civilization? Sounds more like a vacation home. I could use one of those.

"Sounds like we gotta be in two places at once," MacTavish says. His voice sounds hollow, like some part of him is missing, and I know it's my fault, but I nip my thoughts in the bud. No apologies. Necessity.

"Not for the one-four-one," Price says, like the falling out never happened, like everything is just the way it was before he decided to set off an SLBM over the East Coast and before I decided to help him. I admire his one-track mind.

"Fifty-fifty chance to take out Makarov, eh? Captain Price, request permission to take the safe house with Roach," Ghost says. He's estranged, too, by what happened—in disbelief, at odds with himself. But he didn't raise a word on the subject and tries to leave it behind just as professionally as Price does. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Granted," Price says. "Soap and I will take the boneyard in Afghanistan." MacTavish doesn't know how to react to this; the proof is plain on his face. The man he respects more than anything in the world might not be the man he thought he was. Or maybe Price has nothing to do with it and the cause of all the discomfort is me.

"I'll sit this one out," I say. "These wounds aren't gonna heal on their own."

"Very well. We will cut off all avenues of escape. This ends now," Shepherd says, and he makes to leave the room. Price follows behind him with Ghost at his back.

MacTavish circles behind me and mutters sardonically, "Strange. I could have sworn we ended this war yesterday." He pushes my wheel chair along without a word, and every stab of pain in my side feels well-deserved, like how Christ died for everyone's sins or something like that. Only I'm dying for my own, and my cross to bear is the man standing behind me, all faith in me lost, a rift in his trust.

He stops outside the infirmary, still no words passed between us. As much as he doesn't know what to say, I don't want to say anything. Just as well, there's nothing to be said that could make it better.

The nurse inside the infirmary notices us before either of us choose to confront one another, and she moves to bring me back inside and get me back on my bed. I hold up my hand to stop her before she gets me past the threshold, and I turn my head to look back at MacTavish. His eyes are glued to me but look like they're somewhere else entirely.

"I have to go," he says, but I wonder if he really means that there's nothing more to say.

"Be careful," I tell him, and I know it means don't get hurt and come back alive and I love you.

But I don't know if he catches any of that before he walks away, and the sight of his back walking away from me hurts worse than anything I've ever felt before. It takes every ounce of strength I have left to hold in tears—I use an idle hand to put pressure on my side, put my mind elsewhere. The nurse sees it and assumes I'm in pain for all the wrong reasons and she pushes me through the doorway in what she will never know is the biggest mercy I've ever felt. I don't want to see him anymore. I don't want to see his disappointment. Take me away. Let me suffer in peace.

Give me drugs. Give me sleep. Give me anything to take me away from this.

But even with the morphine, even with the cozy sheets and fluffy pillows and the quiet room, my eyes stay open. I hear every sound—the drip of the saline in my IV, the beeping of the monitor keeping track of my blood pressure and my heartbeat, Worm's even breathing from the room over as he sleeps from an induced coma, the shuffle of footsteps outside…

And they all remind me of something. The dripping of the saline reminds me of my sweat and blood against the floor of Jengo Kwame's facility. The beeping monitor reminds me of the timer in the gun course back on the base. Worm's breaths remind me of MacTavish's chest steadily rising and falling as the two of us lay together on those rare nights where it was just the two of us. Just the two of us and almost no comrades around, no missions to be had, no training to worry about. And the footsteps…

The footsteps remind me of something else entirely.

Too quiet.

The footsteps are too quiet. Careful movement. Deft paces. Not the footsteps of the nurse. Not the footsteps of a soldier walking down the hallway. Footsteps of someone who doesn't want to be noticed, of someone who doesn't want to be found.

And my adrenaline kicks in.

Even though the morphine makes me a little groggy and nauseous, I force myself out of bed. I pull the IV out of my arm and ignore the trickle of blood that travels down it. I pull the tab off of my finger and pray that the absence of the beeping doesn't tip anyone off. I move across the room and try not to put any stress on my body. Avoid reopening my wound at any costs. By all rights, I shouldn't even be standing.

It's anything but easy. My legs feel weak and my stomach turns and despite the morphine in my system, I can still feel a little pain in my side. But the adrenaline keeps pumping, and my body knows that it has to move. When I get to the other end of my room, I move behind the door and lean against the wall. My body practically screams out in delight at the relief.

And then I listen, and the footsteps get closer. Closer.

Close to my door, but not right next to it.

Just when I think my adrenaline can't pump any faster, I hear it.

The thing about silencers is, they work great when the enemy isn't expecting trouble, when they're letting all of the other sounds of the world flood their senses, but when you're looking for trouble, when you're listening for it, when the person using the silenced weapon is practically right next to you, a silencer doesn't do much to mask the sound of a gunshot.

Necessity.

Out of necessity, I stand up a little straighter, put more of my weight on both of my feet, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know I'm going to bleed before this day is done.

The footsteps come closer. Closer.

And then there's a pause. The door is wide open. Whoever is there can see that I'm not in bed. They don't know how to proceed. They know they have to check the room. They know they have to follow through with their assignment. But what if I'm not in the room. Where are they going to look next? Better yet, what if I am in the room? What if I know?

I know they're the thoughts going through his head as well as if they were my own, and I can feel his own surprise as I drop him when he enters the room. I'm just as shocked, just as awed by the way my body moves on its own, by the way I grab his left arm and slam upward on his elbow with my other hand. His bones make a sickening sounds—a crack or a dislocation, I don't know—and I grab the pistol from his hands with a quick jab to his face from my elbow. He barely knows what hit him before I point the gun at his face and pull the trigger.

I check my corners. The nurse is gone. There's no one else in the room. It's all clear.

And then I feel nauseous, and not from the morphine. Not from the wound in my side.

I walk into the next room before my mind knows where my body is going.

Worm is no longer in an induced coma. He's dead.

Somehow the monotonous tone sounding through the room triggers everything. I keel over and vomit. It's basically bile, a little leftover blood from when my insides were bleeding—if they aren't still—but nothing solid, nothing incapacitating. Before the nausea gets the better of me again, I turn back toward my room and look at the body on the ground. Bending over hurts. Bending over definitely hurts, but I do it. I bend over and take off the man's black balaclava.

And I see one of Shepherd's Shadow Company members underneath.

I shouldn't be surprised. By all rights, I shouldn't be surprised. This is Shepherd we're talking about. Shepherd, the guy I've hated since day one. Shepherd, the guy who would rather give up a good soldier for shady intel. Shepherd, the guy who, mere hours ago, I'd finally and wholeheartedly agreed with for the first time in my life.

For the last time.

I strip the guy for everything he has—his pants, his shirt, his gear, his shoes, his weapons, his radio—until there's a naked dead guy on the floor before me. I put on everything I can. His pants are a little too big. And his shirt. And his shoes and his vest and his gloves. The balaclava fits fine, though it's covered with blood. His pistol and his knife are the only weapons he has, so I stick the knife into a vest pocket and tuck the gun into the back of my pants. The whole process of dressing myself in his clothes takes more than ten minutes, maybe even twenty, but by the end I'm dressed well enough to pass as one of Shadow Company as long as no one looks too closely.

I want to vomit again when I think of Worm, but I hold it in. Someone will be here for the Shadow Company operative soon if he doesn't report in, and that means I'll need to be out of here before then. I briefly think about pulling his body into the bed and making him look like me, at a glance, but I know I won't be able to. Instead, I say one last goodbye to Worm, grab his tags from the end table next to his bed, and head out of the room.

I have to warn MacTavish.

But he's miles away in Afghanistan by now, and Roach and Ghost are miles away in the Caucasus Mountains. So I go to the next best option.

Find Shepherd.

It's easier done than said. The com traffic is straightforward. It's the first time in years I've eavesdropped on people speaking English over the radios. No Russian, no Danti, no Pashtu, just English. Shepherd's pulling out. Pulling out. Pulling out where? Pulling out to extract Roach and Ghost and the rest of the team. He was going to hit them first.

I head to the landing pad. With only a few stragglers moving through the hallways of the base, getting to the landing pad is easy. It turns out it's easy to move around as long as everyone thinks you're dead. It's not so easy to move around when you have a wound in your side that's barely two days old. I don't check to see if it's bleeding, but I assume that it is somewhere in the back of my mind, and it hurts more with every step that I take.

Shepherd is already gone by the time I get to the landing pad. His chopper is already pulling out, and several more behind it. All of them are of the ground. All of them say to me, _failure, failure, failure_.

All except one.

I wave my hand to the guys in the chopper getting ready for dustoff. They wave back and urge me to hurry up, and I do my best to maintain a casual jog toward the chopper. They're dressed like me, and in the black clothing with the vest, they can't tell that I'm a woman. With the balaclava, they can't tell that I'm not one of them. It isn't until they get closer, until they notice that I don't have all the right gear, that they start to get suspicious.

I flex my finger, once, twice, when I reach the door of the chopper, and the two bodies fall out the side door.

The thing about silencers is, they only silence the gunshot when the enemy isn't looking to hear it, and the poor bastard in the front seat doesn't hear a thing, what with the earmuffs on his head and the chopper blades drowning out all the sound. I stick on the headphones from one of the guys on the ground and hop on the chopper before the man in the front seat has cause to turn around and investigate.

"Follow Shepherd," I tell the man when I point the gun to his head. "Follow him. And if you say a word into the coms, if you try fight back or fly off course, if you so much as pick your fucking nose, I'll blow your head off. Got it?"

The man doesn't even nod; he just lifts the chopper off the ground and follows the other choppers that are already in the air. I can practically feel him erupt into a cold sweat. Shadow Company, huh? Turns out, no matter what unit you're a part of, you can still turn chicken-shit when there's a gun to your head.

He's not the only one in a cold sweat, and, for me, it's not just from the pain in my side. I think of MacTavish and Price. I think of Ghost and Roach. I think of Scarecrow and Ozone and Archer and Toad. None of them are going to die today, not if I can help it. I'll die before I let that happen. Necessity.

Necessity does it all. Necessity keeps me standing even when my body would rather quit. Necessity keeps me pointing the gun at the Shadow Company operative's head even though I have nothing personal against him. Necessity keeps me from thinking about Worm even though I left his body back at the base to rot. Necessity was going to help me kill Shepherd even if it meant my life. One way or the other, Shepherd _would_ die before this day was done.

One way or another.

* * *

><p>The Caucasus Mountains weren't what I expected—boarding Russia, but not as cold as I thought they'd be, not as harsh and unforgiving as Petropavlovsk was. But I don't have time to admire the scenery or the weather. I have to concentrate every cell in my body just to keep myself standing and to keep the gun pointed at the pilot's head.<p>

He'll probably die before this day is done, him and more of his fellow operatives and Shepherd and probably me, too. It wasn't an outcome I would have expected when I woke up this morning, that's for sure, but if it's the only outcome that will allow Ghost and Roach and MacTavish and Price and all of the others to live, then it's an outcome I'll accept. The relatively short ride to the safe house was enough for me to reach this conclusion. More than enough.

I see the safe house when it comes into view. A vacation home. It really did look like one—a quaint cottage-house in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors and no civilization and a breathtaking view. Or maybe I'm short of breath from the increasing pain, from the exertion. Either way, it looks like soon I'll be taking a permanent vacation here. _If_ I have to give my life to stop Shepherd, to save my comrades, I would say this is a relatively good place to die. If there's ever a good place to die.

No, dying for the ones you love—_that's _a good place to die. It doesn't matter where you are, as long as you're dying for them. Or maybe that's just the romantic bullshit they feed you all your life. Maybe the idea of death hasn't sunk in yet. Just like the pilot flying this helo, it took a gun right to his head for him to realize he's scared of his own death. Maybe I'll be there, too. For MacTavish's sake, for Price's sake, for Roach's sake and Ghost's sake, _if_ I get there, I hope it's when it's too late.

But when I think of Private West, I know it won't come. Necessity. Maybe necessity and I have been friends longer than I realized.

And this was why MacTavish wanted me on the team all along: so I could have his back, so I could have _everyone's_ back. If any of us have a specific purpose in the one-four-one, this is mine.

The com traffic comes through to me like a hurricane. This is it. We'll win or lose it all in the next few hours. I'll be compromised in the next few minutes unless I can get the pilot to report in to Shepherd without giving me away. Getting a man not to divulge your secrets is one thing. Getting him to lie about knowing them at all is another thing entirely.

"Delta Five," Shepherd says through the coms. "Delta Five, are you ready to engage and hit the LZ? Delta Five, respond now," he says.

"Report in," I say as I press the gun into the guy's temple. "Do it," I say again, and I push the gun harder.

If you're going to die, you might as well die under your own power.

That must be what the guy is thinking when he takes his hand off the stick and twists around to retaliate. And he connects. Hard. His elbow hits me right in my left side, and my entire body keels over before I can fight back. "Hotel Six, proceed with the plan! Proceed with the plan! We've got one last loose end!" the man yells as he gives a kicking blow directly to my stomach while I'm crouched over.

The chopper starts to tilt, but the man doesn't go back to the controls. His hits me again, this time on my right side. When he notices blood on my hands from holding my left side, he hits me there again, and this time I fall to the floor of the helo. That's when I notice the ground getting closer, getting closer and closer. The man takes a brief moment to level out the chopper, and then he turns to the doorway and jumps out.

My body takes over before my mind knows what's happening, and I'm rolling, rolling, until I'm suspended briefly in the air. During the short time I'm airborne, I hear the crash, the sound of the legs of the chopper hitting the ground at high speeds, the sound of the unit tipping forward and breaking the blades off against the ground, the scream of the metal crushing and bending and ripping.

And then I hit, and everything goes black.

I'm not out long. I know because when I sit up, I see the pilot standing up as well, standing up and running away from the wreckage, away from me. He must think I'm dead or must think I'm going to die soon—he's probably right—so he runs and runs. It takes me a few seconds to see where he's running to, to see Shepherd's chopper touching down across the field, and some part of my mind says, _too late_.

But I don't give in to it. Despite the pain in my side and the blood soaking my shirt and my hands, I get to my feet. I'm numb. Everything is numb. Maybe it's the morphine left in my system. Maybe it's from the rough landing. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I have enough maybe's to fill a tub. Everything is numb, but everything works, and I head off after the operative as fast as my body will let me. I lost my gun falling from the chopper, but I run. The knife fell out of my vest somewhere along the line, but I run. I'm wounded and bleeding and dying, but I run.

I run until the man is out of sight. I run until the mortars stop going off across the field. I run until dust surrounds Shepherd's chopper and it waves off. I run until I see the smoke coming from the distance. I run until I realize that I'm not running at all, until I realize that I'm dragging myself foot by foot through the waist-high grass breathing with labored heaves and soaking the dry parts of my shirt with my own sweat.

It still feels so far away—the house, the smoke, the spot where Shepherd's chopper landed. It's so far away, and, eventually, it stops getting closer at all. I'm still standing but I'm not moving. My body won't let my legs move. I'm just standing there, and my mind is screaming at me not to give up, screaming at me to keep moving, but my body won't listen.

"Flash?" I hear from somewhere. The voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. The voice screams, _I'm injured and tired and I can't go on, but I will_. Painfully familiar. Familiar should never be painful, but it is here. It is when I know who the voice is coming from and I know that "who" is injured and I know that "who" might be dying. "Flash, how did you get here?" the voice asks, and when I see the figure limping toward me, I feel relief, but only a little. Not dying. Injured. Injured badly, but not dying.

"Archer," I mumble, and my own voice is quieter than his.

"You're bleeding," he says, his voice raising a decibel. "We need to get that wound looked at, now," he says.

"No," I mutter. "Roach. And Ghost," I say, "we have to get to Roach and Ghost." He listens to me. I don't know why, but he listens. He sticks an arm under my own even though he can barely hold up his own weight.

He lets me lead, and the smoke starts to get closer. After what feels like an eternity, the smoke starts to get closer. It gets closer and closer until we're right up next to the source. If ever my heart has truly stopped before, it's here, it's now. I knew what the smoke was. I think I knew it all along. I knew it before the smoke appeared. I knew it before the chopper pulled away. I knew it before I put the gun to the pilot's head and told him to follow Shepherd. I knew it before I walked into Worm's room and saw the hole in his head.

I look for something, anything to tell me that they're alive. A blink, a breath, a twitch,_ anything_. But my mind doesn't wait. Every cell in my body tells me to stay back, to keep away, but, for the first time, my mind takes complete control.

I dive into the fire.

_Bring them back, _my mind says. _Bring them back! Bring them back!_ I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I'm saying it too, but it doesn't matter. There's nothing else, not the pain on my arms where they grab at the two vests in the fire before me, not the heat on my face where the balaclava has caught fire and is searing my flesh, not the pain in my side from the steady stream of blood flowing out of it, and not the man standing behind me trying to pull me out of the flames.

"Ghost, don't you die on me!" I scream. "Roach, don't you dare! Get up! Get up, both of you! Get up now! Get up, damn you!" I scream and scream, but they don't move, and eventually my words are coming out in sobs. "Get up! Get the hell up! Don't die on me, don't you dare! Get! The hell! Up!"

The next thing I know, I'm on the cool grass with hands patting at my face and my arms. And there's nothing else. Just my tears and my screams and my sobs and my gasps.

"Flash, are you crazy?" Archer sounds in my ear. "Calm down, Flash! There's nothing you can do about it now! You can't bring them back!"

I hear every word of what he says, but the screams won't stop erupting out of my mouth. "Damn you, Shepherd! Ghost! Roach! Get back here! Come back! Come back," I scream and scream until I can't understand myself anymore, until the only sounds escaping my mouth are angry sobs. I've curled onto my side and Archer is rubbing my back with a soothing hand. I want it to work, I want it to help, but it doesn't. The sobs keep coming, and I wish I'd just stayed in my bed and waited to die.

Too late now.

Necessity.

It's a long time before the sobs stop—long enough for Archer to do a quick dress job on my wounds and his own—and they only stop because I have no more strength left to give to them. When they do stop, my eyes are so swollen that I can barely open them, so I keep them closed.

And I think of Ghost's face. I think of Roach's. I think of MacTavish's and Price's—they're probably dead, too. Probably dead, so why was I still here? And Archer. But I ignore his pleas to get up. I ignore his pleas to open my eyes. Royce is dead and Roach is dead and Meat is dead and Ghost is dead and Worm is dead and Ozone is dead and Scarecrow is dead and Toad is dead and MacTavish and Price are probably dead. It's just me and Archer, and there's nothing left.

The shouts don't do what they should when they hit my ear. At first, my heart jumps—one last hope that Ghost and Roach are going to come back, one last ring of hope. My mind remembers their bodies quickly, burned flesh, singed hair, remains of a white embroidered skull and orange sunglasses looking up at me, of brown hair and brown eyes staring into the emptiness of space, blood soaking their vests, their shirts.

Guns still gripped in their hands.

When I recognize the Russian beyond Archer's protests, my mind relaxes. _Take me, _it says. _Take me and kill me. It's over. Let it be done._

The darkness never comes. There's pain—the pain in my side and on my arms and on my face and in my heart, but also rough hands on my limbs, a cruel thud against the ground.

There are few things quite as painful as letting down someone you love, someone you trust.

I should die for my sins.

But the darkness never comes, and when I hear the chopper blades and the Russian voices and Archer trying to goad me awake, I bring my hands to my face and open my eyes a little bit. Just a little bit.

In the cold metal burning my seared hands, I see names.

Roach. Gary Sanderson.

Ghost. Simon Riley.

There are few things quite as painful as letting down someone you love, someone you trust. I should die for my sins.

But the darkness never comes.

**_To Be Continued..._**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And there it is. Our long journey of _Flash_ has come to an end.

This was a heavy chapter and certainly not easy to write from an emotional standpoint. It breaks my heart to follow the canon where it counted. I'm sure there's more than a few upset readers who were hoping for the best, hoping for success on Flash's part. As it turns out, Flash's pain was not particularly hard to convey because it was also my own.

Thank you, everyone, so much for sticking with this story. It means more than I can say that you stuck with Flash throughout her journey.

But her journey isn't over yet. The sequel, _Disavowed_, is up.

All love~

HK


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